


The Prettiest

by fangirlingisveryhard



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Chilton is "cringy", Hannibal has no chill, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, PIANO SEX SCENE!, Rimming, Slightly Dom Hannibal, Strip Tease, They eat a lot of italian cuisine, Will goes shopping, Will wears a crop top!, hooker!will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlingisveryhard/pseuds/fangirlingisveryhard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you know what the world really needed? A Pretty Woman Hannigram AU. Seriously, just think about it.</p><p> <i>Will takes a deep breath, pushes back his untamed locks and leans against the car. When he opens his mouth to speak, faking a flirtatious attitude that doesn't belong to him, his voice is just a soft purr.</i><br/>"Lookin' for a date?"<br/>At that sound, Hannibal Lecter steps out of the car.</p><p> </p><p> So many thanks to <a href="artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com">artbyvictoriaskye</a> and <a href="iwanttobeamangaka.tumblr.com">iwanttobeamangaka</a> who made this possible. Check the <a href="http://artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com/post/145216518672/i-dont-know-if-yall-know-this-but">cover art</a> for this work made by lovely <a href="artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com">artbyvictoriaskye</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VictoriaSkyeMarsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaSkyeMarsters/gifts).



 

He goes to bed late. The stench of the streets is still all over his skin, it blends with the smell of his sweat, with the aroma of the men he has laid with just hours before. It reaches his nostrils, and he falls asleep like this, wondering when exactly it has become so familiar to him.

Between white sheets, he lies on his stomach. So tired he is, when he gets home, that he doesn’t even bother to take his clothes off. A pair of worn-out jeans works as pajama bottoms, as a green army t-shirt gets wrinkled by the inadvertent movements he makes in his sleep.

His breath is steady. It parts his cherry lips, caresses the pillow upon which he rests his head, and it turns into a soft snore from time to time. Rumpled brown curls brush against the smooth skin of his cheeks in the same way as unknown fingers have done on many occasions, wanton and mischievous. They haven’t succeeded in spoiling the aura of innocence he emanates, more so now, or the look of pureness that he hides from the world.

He raises his hands, to remove a lock of hair that bothers him from his closed eyes, then he switches position a little, spreading his legs and bending his knee. Like a cat, he stretches out his arms and then squeezes the pillow. It’s late afternoon outside. Pale sun rays beam through the window to rest upon his exhausted body. Someone, in the street, sings a tale of dreams coming true in LA.

Will knows little about the matter. He was eighteen when he left the familiarity of his old hometown, his dogs and a messed up father. He chased happiness back then, money and maybe some worth-telling adventure. He soon realized that Los Angeles success stories are just that: stories. Now, the memory of the joy he felt when, for the first time, he had buried his feet in the sand, and the ocean breeze had blown through his curls, is the only good thing left. The land of dreams is, for pretty Will Graham, the land of nightmares.

"Graham, what the fuck? Are you still sleeping?"

Will grunts in response, as his loud roommate bursts into the room and turns on the light. She wanders around, yells at him, bumps into something, yells even more. Will puts his head under the pillow and covers his ears and, when she realizes he isn't paying attention, she tugs at the sheets.

"Lemme fuckin' sleep," Will growls, and turns away. Beverly studies the boy as he starts to snore again within few seconds. She also glances at the chaos around her, a room which hasn't been tidied up in forever. She sighs loudly, but the sound doesn't trouble Will's sleep.

"You're a fucking mess, you know that, Graham?"

She grabs a dirty t-shirt from the floor, a pair of socks that rests close to them. She throws them at him, shamelessly. "I wonder why I let you stay here, in the first place." Will Graham was homeless when she opened her flat for him a couple of years before. She had met him on a night out and, God! Wasn't he beautiful? The most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, as she told to a friend later on the phone. But the crush on him didn't last for long: it disappeared altogether the day he knocked on her door, with a backpack full of lost hopes. It was later replaced by a fondness that grew bigger every day.

"Because I'm cute," comes Will's muffled voice from under the pillow, and Beverly snorts and sits on the bed next to her friend.

"No, you're a brat. Now, please, get up. They will take our spot otherwise. I always tell those hags 'Count the stars, babes! We work all the _waaay_ down to Ella Fitzgerald.’ They say they’re just resting, but I'm telling you: they’re not."

As Beverly carries on with her bustle, Will is left wondering how they ended like this. The why's don't bother him: poor decisions can lead to a miserable life, and does wisdom belong to teenagers? It is the way they accepted their fate that still shakes Will at night. Two prostitutes in LA, that's who they are. No bright future ahead of them, no dreams, no hope. Nothing but a garbage flat and enough money to survive the day.

"That is our turf,” she goes on saying, “we got seniority. Go rest up by Monty Hall or Esther Williams!"

"You're such a grouch."

Beverly chuckles and watches Will as he gets up from the bed. He takes off his shirt, tosses it on the floor and pretends not to hear the disapproving noise that comes from Beverly's mouth. He's shirtless when he reaches the bathroom and runs the water to brush his teeth.

"I'm just hungry," Beverly responds. "It was a slow night, yesterday. Didn't make any money."

Will hums as he pushes away the sight of the men who had taken him the day before, fucked him into exhaustion. He still feels sore from it, and it lowers his eyes to find a bruise on his hips, where rough hands had grabbed him. He hasn't had slow nights in years. People say, and this statement usually comes between pants and moans, that it is his innocent face that gets them. And the way he rocks his hips while he walks. Will finds himself rocking them harder when the money he earns is not enough to survive the day.

"We should get a pimp, you know?"

The boy spits into the sink and regards his friends, narrowing his eyes. "What? Are you serious?"

"It would be easier, wouldn't it be?"

"Yeah, to let someone run our lives and take our money? Easier, indeed."

Beverly lies on the empty bed, still warm from Will's body, and seems to think about it. She sighs in the end, and it's a silent assent. As her friend gets dressed, she realizes that at least they have their freedom, unlike some of their colleagues, and although it's a small comfort, it feels good to have that certainty. Beverly smiles at him and gets up to ruffle his hair. Will's warm smile is the reaction she wanted.

"Am I?" the girl asks, and her arms wrap Will's waist in a tight embrace. "A grouch, I mean."

"Sometimes."

They both share an unimpressed look and then burst out laughing at each other. They are the only family they have. And when life gets tough and hard to comprehend, their friendship is enough to cope with it. This they know, and this they won't forget. Beverly takes Will's hand in hers and leads him out of their shared flat.

Even though it is late at night, the sidewalk is packed with people. Camera-clad tourists, fanatics dressed up as superheroes and Star Wars characters, they all rush up and down the streets, laughing, living, enjoying the moment. That is Hollywood Boulevard, or at least that is how they show it in movies. No matter how hard they try to clean up, the place will always be a dump in Will's eyes, who has seen it in its worst days. Because if someone asked him, the boy, hand on heart, would say the Walk of Fame is a dump, and that would be the most sincere answer he could give.

"Hey girls, what about a freebie?"

A bunch of drunks shouts at them from a car, but Beverly looks straight ahead as she walks, and Will with her, in the same way as she has taught him, not long before.

"Oh, come on, it's my birthday!"

"Dream on," Beverly murmurs, and keeps walking. Street harassments come and go, they are part of their working routine. Will doesn't get angry anymore, nor does he try to respond to them. On the contrary, he has accepted them and, on the worst days, they feel like something he deserves. There is a price to pay for being a whore.

"Okay," the girl says once they reach their spot. "We need money for the rent. No, wait, I need money for the rent, you have it already, damn you."

Will smiles and eases up, although the tension doesn't leave his shoulder and jaw. Beverly can see it clearly, like she always does, every time they arrive at their stretch of boulevard.

"It's gonna be alright, chap."

"You don't know that."

Will scans the road. Luxurious wheels roll down the boulevard, their engines roaring and making everyone turn their heads. Their drivers, probably the hottest stars in Hollywood, don't pay them any attention, not willing to sink to the level of two cheap hookers.

"I do know," Beverly insists. "I also know that you won't get killed tonight..."

"What?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, while a tiny laugh escapes his lips. "I wasn't even thinking—"

"...and that your body won't get dropped in a dumpster."

"Okay, that's creepy, stop it!"

Grinning, Beverly pokes him in the ribs, and Will grabs her hands to make her stop. They're still smiling when they hear the screech.

A Bentley Arnage stops not far from them. Not one of the fancy sports cars one usually sees in a place like this, but something both stylish and classy, stunning in its black paint. When the car door opens, Will cranes his neck to see a polished Oxford shoe touching the asphalt.

"Woah, that's some filthy rich I am looking at!"

Beverly's tone of surprise matches Will's disbelief. After all, it is not something that happens every day. The man seems to fumble inside the cockpit for quite some time, drawing the attention of the other hookers, who start hanging around his car. None of them gets close enough.

"You should go for it."

Will turns towards his friend, his expression halfway between astonishment and amusement. He looks at the car again, and Beverly knows that, by now, all he needs is just a little nudge. She looks at him, up and down; she studies his blue jeans, tighter in his thigh, shaped to the ass, and the white crop top that leaves a gap to show off his navel and a trace of hair that extends from it in a straight line.

"You look hot tonight." She shrugs as if that could be a valid argument. "Call me when you're through!" and waves at him to say goodbye.

There is a smile on Will's face when he heads toward the car, but his steps are slow and uncertain. For each one he takes, the realization of what kind of night he has ahead hits him stronger and his smile threatens to leave his face. But he takes a deep breath, pushes back his untamed locks and leans against the car. When he opens his mouth to speak, faking a flirtatious attitude that doesn't belong to him, his voice is just a soft purr.

"Lookin' for a date?"

At that sound, Hannibal Lecter steps out of the car. He faces away from the young boy, not interested in another offer from another prostitute. One thinks a polite rejection can be enough, but these hookers are persistent nowadays, not to say annoying, which they are, according to Hannibal, at least. Thus, he goes for indifference, and he opens the bonnet of the car, pretending no one is bothering him.

One glance is enough for Will to realize what kind of man is the one before him. He is in his thirties; mid-thirties maybe, but it's hard to tell, his hair is not of any help. Brown with blond highlights, it looks unnatural somehow, but isn't he much too young to dye it? The smooth skin of his face says so. He wears a gray and blue plaid suit — a three-piece, Will notices, as the man unbuttons his jacket and leans down to check something in the bonnet— the tie has a funny pattern, and everything screams money. Will got lucky tonight; the look of annoyance on the man's face cannot stop him.

"Hey, sugar, I just want to help you."

Hannibal closes his eyes, exhales and starts counting to ten. He doesn't want to lose his temper just because someone has called him sugar. That is not the night he has in mind. With his fists clenched, he raises his head to meet the eyes of the insolent standing in front of him and shoot him an eloquent glare.

Hannibal's eyes widen, and he blinks in surprise as the young smirks and takes a step forward, as though Hannibal's amazement was to be interpreted as an invitation.

His beauty is striking: pale face and rosy cheeks, with brown hair curling around it; a lovely mouth that goes with a slight turned up nose. There is something ethereal in his charm, heavenly. Hannibal looks around, at Hollywood's state of decay spreading before his eyes. He wonders how such grace could preserve itself from all the degeneration that surrounds it.

"Have I left you speechless?" the boy asks, an alluring tone in his voice.

"The car broke down."

The man speaks with an accent that Will cannot define, but it certainly adds to his charm. "The engine started stuttering," he continues, "and it died soon after."

The boy, now inches away from him, turns towards the bonnet and studies its contents. Hannibal notices how his face slightly changes, the way his brow furrows while he focuses on the car. He extends his arm, at some point, the palm of his hand open, facing downwards.

"It's warm."

Hannibal hums and presses his lips together. He is not sure he should take him seriously, but there is confidence in his movements, so he stays quiet and observes him, enthralled.

"It’s probably an issue in the fuel system. The fuel pump overheats, it happens with some old cars. It's a Bentley Arnage, am I right?"

At this, Hannibal nods. "Well, you will have to change the radiator. Nothing complicated, although it could cost you a fortune, but," and he grins while saying this, "I doubt that would be a problem."

The man tilts his head. His face is blank, emotionless, and his gaze intense, as if he is looking deeper, not lingering on the surface as most of the men do. It makes him feel vulnerable. It averts his eyes and clears his throat: "Try to restart the engine and, eventually, it will work. You should be careful with the accelerator. If you press it too much, you risk losing the motor. Do you think you can make it?"

He asks without malice. For some reason, he has taken the matter to heart. A rich, handsome guy, whose car stops in the middle of the night, and in the most debauched street of the city. Maybe he is a prince and Will the small mouse that will help him reach his castle. Maybe some magic is still possible in LA.

The man takes the key from his pocket and makes it swing between his fingers. "I don't know. Can you?"

Will doesn't spend too much time pondering it. He grabs the keys, a big full-teeth smile on his face, and veers toward the car door to open it, still not entirely sure that what is happening is real. He searches for Beverly with his eyes, wanting to say that, hey, I am going to drive a Bentley! They'd need one glance, after all, they're just so good at this non-verbal communication, but when he finds her, she is under the same streetlight where he left her, and she doesn't look in his direction, but she is scanning the roads. Will can see her shivering, even from a distance. The temperature drops in the night, and she will probably stay on the sidewalk for hours before going home; it looks like another slow night is ahead for her.

The boy stops and doesn't unlock the door. Hannibal follows his gaze, then focuses on him again, on the smile that drops away. He leans towards him.

"I will repay you for your kindness."

The boy turns, looking at him with a pair of big sapphire eyes. Hannibal can see in them the struggle going on inside him, as he stays silent, too ashamed to admit that he needs the money, but not too reckless to refuse it. He shrugs, in the end, and his nod is almost imperceptible.

The engine starts on the first try. Will resists the temptation to rep it up, although a slight pressure on the gas pedal is enough to make the car roar. Adrenaline pours to his vein, as he feels the vibration deep inside his body, making him dizzy. He shoots a quick look to the man in the passenger seat, and he notices his smug expression. The look on the man’s face is one of pure enjoyment.

"So," Will starts, the flirtatious smirk back on his face. "Where am I taking you, sir?"

"Beverly Wilshire Hotel."

Will lets out a high whistle."Fancy shit!" he says, and then regrets it soon after as he senses the man's disapproving look on him. He doesn't seem the swearing type of guy, his composure so evident even when he doesn't look straight at him. He must be a member of the upper-class, it could be noticed not only in his suit but also in the way he sits straight, head high. He is also a foreigner, as Will had suspected once he heard his accent. The Hotel proves it so.

"What are you doing here in LA?"

The man stays quiet for some time. Too much personal? Will doesn't insist and keeps driving. Streetlights follow one another on the windshield, lighting the inside of the cockpit.

"Work related reasons," he says in the end.

Will hums. "Are you in the film industry?" He knows he's pushing a little; he can't help it. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to bother. He chuckles instead.

"No, not at all. I'll present my paper in a Psychiatry conference. Aren't you asking too many questions? Is that how hookers work nowadays?"

There is a hint of humor in his voice, yet Will gives him a side-eye. He bites his tongue before he can talk back to him, and repeats to himself that he shouldn't take offense because the man has just stated the obvious.

"Then why don't you try asking them, instead?"

"What's your name?"

Will looks at him again, just long enough to catch him licking his lower lips in a quick move.

"Whatever you want it to be?"

The man raises an eyebrow. "Really?" Not a fan of cheesy games.

"Will."

Silence follows his answer. From time to time, he can hear the man tapping his fingers while he takes in the sight LA is offering out of the windows. His eyes look shiny from his perspective.

"What is yours? Or is it one question too many?"

"I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter," he responds right away. "And I think we have reached our destination."

 

Will looks outside the window, and here it is, the Beverly Wilshire. It stands out against the night sky, big and shiny, and Will remembers all the times he had passed it by, getting home on a bus, big-ass rich people all there to show off their big-ass richness, and oh! How envious he felt, back then.

He pulls over in front of the entrance. A valet, in a gray uniform and a fake, forced smile approaches them and, as soon as Will applies the handbrake, the guy knocks on the windows. The boy turns, casts him a nasty look. Sure they must think he has stolen the car or whatever. He opens his mouth to send him off but stops when he hears Hannibal's soft laughter.

"He wants the key," he says. He looks so amused. Will's cheeks flush red with embarrassment and, without adding a word, he gets out of the car and hands it to valet.

"Will you be needing your car again tonight, sir?"

"No, thank you," Hannibal politely answers. "But it needs some repair. Would you be so kind," he pulls out twenty dollars from his wallet, "and handle the matter for me? Send the bill to Doctor Hannibal Lecter, please."

The boy accepts the money, bobs a curtsy and takes his leave. Hannibal follows him with his eyes, as he gets in the car and starts the engine. As he did before, it works on its first try. Hannibal wonders if fate is making fun of him, perhaps. He turns his attention to the boy standing in front of him, just a few steps away.

Even now, in the presence of the finest men and women of the city or maybe the whole country, Will's beauty sticks out. He attracts the attention of passers-by, the Hotel's valets can't help but stare at the perfect face of this boy, who keeps his head ducked and his hands inside the pocket. He hasn't noticed it yet, in all likelihood, or, if he has, it must have bothered him, because he continues to pull the hem of his t-shirt down, in a vain attempt to cover himself better. Curious behaviour for a hooker.

Hannibal takes a few steps towards him, between his fingers a rolled up fifty dollar bill. He hands it to him. "For your courtesy."

Will raises his head, looks at the banknote first and then straight into Hannibal's eyes. The internal conflict Hannibal had witnessed before on his face shows up one more time. Will opens his mouth, then closes it again, then exhales and shakes his head.

"It's okay," is all he says.

"You were gentle with me. I'd like to repay you for that."

Will waves his hand, dismissively. "No need to, really."

They stare into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds. There is a genuine warmth in him, and Hannibal feels very reluctant to say goodbye to the boy. But he sees the way he looks around, searching a way to escape the man who doesn't seem interested in his service and he is making him waste his time.

"Will you be alright?" Hannibal asks in the end.

Will nods. "I'll take a bus to go back, I’ll sit over there and wait for it." He gestures towards a bench on the sidewalk. "So," clearing his throat, "goodbye, then. It was a pleasure."

"The pleasure was mine."

He is for certain the most polite man Will has ever met. Not to mention that he is also the most handsome client, or potential one, he has dealt with. As he walks towards the bench, Will tries not to think about how much money he could have earned that night. He would have liked it, the man, of that he is sure. He would have even come to him a second time for an encore. Will sits on the cold bench, his wallet empty as before, and no signs of a bus anywhere.

"Will."

The accented voice reaches him from behind. Doctor Hannibal Lecter (can one forget such a name?) is smiling at him, and Will gives him a questioning look.

"I can't sleep tonight knowing that I benefitted from your kindness gratuitously. Why don't you come with me? At least I can offer you a drink before letting you go."

Must be difficult for a man of his leverage to accept the company of a prostitute from the street, it must be even worse to phrase it out loud in front of a crowd. But Will takes the hint, as he always does, and, the smirk back on his face, he extends a hand and lets Hannibal take it.

"I'll gladly accept your offer."

Walking into the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel is like stepping into a dream. The Hollywood dream. Every detail has been carefully chosen: from the floral display in the middle of the hall to the staff that treats guests like royalty. Jazz music fills the air alongside the sweet smells of camellias that adorn the room, and hotel guests in their dashing suits and fashionable dresses chatter in the parlors, expensive cocktails in their hands.

That is why Jimmy Price, working at the front desk and filling in papers for Mr. and Mrs. Schumaker check-out, gets taken aback by the sight of the young man who enters the hotel in a crop top and a pair of dirty sneakers. The boy gapes at the high ceiling and the polished floor while a man by his side, this one elegant like any other person present in the hall, chuckles and listens to his talking. Jimmy can't help but notice the look of dismay on Mrs. Schumaker's face as she gazes upon the boy and his hairy navel in plain sight. He clears his throat to draw her attention back again, but the lady's eyes are fixed on the young man, and so he decides to drop the pen on the desk and approach the bizarre couple.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The boy quickly turns towards him, and so does the man who accompanies him, although it takes a while for him to get his eyes off his companion. It's the latter who answers his question.

"Good evening." His voice is cold, and he regards him with annoyance as if he had interrupted something important. "Yes, could you please send up a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet?"

"Of course, sir." Jimmy nods his head, taking a mental note. "You are...?"

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I am staying in the Penthouse suite. This is—," but he stops before finishing the sentence. In all honesty, Jimmy can imagine who the boy is or, at least, what the boy does, but he is not in the place of making comments, so he waits for the gentleman to continue. Hannibal Lecter looks at the young man, whose cheeks are now burning with embarrassment. He studies his face for a long time and then, without turning towards Jimmy, he says: "—my nephew."

On the boy's brow a furrow forms, still he frantically nods at the front desk man and mouths the word as if that could make it official.

"I see, Doctor Lecter. I apologize for the mistrust. Your _nephew_ , however, appears to be uninformed about the dress code of the Hotel. Could you be so kind and find a remedy? Your wine will be sent in your suite in no time. Have a good night, sir."

The man disappears as quickly as he had shown up. As Hannibal takes off his jacket, Will realizes he hadn't breathed properly during the brief exchange. He is not made for a place like this. The disapproving gaze of the hotel guests burns his skin so hard that he's almost worried about the marks it could leave. Will they be more visible than the bruises he already has on his body? Will they make people point their fingers at him even more? Panic rises, it clouds his thoughts and his eyes, and then the warmth of Hannibal's jacket falls on his shoulder. Will finds himself gripping the fabric with his trembling hands and wraps himself tightly in it.

He resumes his walking, feigning a confidence he has lost in the last few minutes. He doesn't talk to Hannibal, not now, nor in the elevator (although it's hard to contain himself when even the elevator is a source of wonder: there is a sofa in there for two!). He speaks, however, once they reach the damn fancy, luxurious Penthouse suite, and Hannibal closes the door behind his back. He reaches his hand to turn on the light, but Will stops him and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his trousers.

"All right. Here we go."

It takes a while for Hannibal's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. All he can see is the outline of the boy's nose, his strong jawline; he even catches a glimpse of tongue, running over the boy's lower lip. Will fumbles with the fly of his trousers, his movements unafraid, the ones of a man who knows what to do, and Hannibal's lips part in bewilderment, not expecting all that eagerness. He soon realizes that it's all part of a game that Will has played so many times it almost looks natural in him. The boy slips a hand into Hannibal’s trousers, and just as he cups his cock and starts rubbing, Hannibal grabs it and moves it away.

"Wine will be here in a moment," he reminds him. He fastens his fly, switches the light on and walks past him.

It's not that he doesn't want to have sex with him: in all honesty, Hannibal hasn't thought of anything else since putting his eyes over the boy. But he is one for control, and if something must happen tonight, Hannibal is going to be the one who starts it. Also, Will intrigues him on a deeper level. His confidence seems just a veil that hides his insecurity, and there is a shyness in him worth exploring. He breathes deeply, then, and wipes away every trace of arousal.

When the doorbell rings, Will is still in front of the door, Hannibal's jacket on his shoulders, a dazed expression on his face. He jumps at the sound and turns abruptly, the movement so quick that the jacket slips away and lands on the ground with a thump.

"Room service," says a voice from the hallway, and Will opens the door, letting the waiter and his silver cart inside.

By Hannibal's request, the man sets the tray in the middle of the living room and then puts the bottle of wine on a coffee table, as well as a covered bowl. He accepts a tip from Hannibal, eventually, and with a courtesy bow, he leaves. Will watches the scene with some sort of detachment, still processing Hannibal's rejection, which doesn't make sense in his mind. If the man is not interested in sex, then why let Will in his room?

Will lowers to get the jacket off the floor and never stops to look at Hannibal, who in the meantime gets the cover off the bowl and picks a strawberry from it. As Will approaches him, the jacket in his hands, Hannibal brings the fruit to his lips. They are standing very close now, and neither of them has averted his eyes. Hannibal bites into it. It looks like a promise. "Delicious," he says.

The wine is delicious too. The Bâtard-Montrachet is one of the most expensive wines of the world, as Hannibal casually let slip in an annoying attempt at showing off. Will luckily resisted the urge of curling his lip. Hannibal also tells him the story beyond the name, how the Bâtard mentioned is the bastard son of Lord Puligny, upon whose lands the Montrachet vineyard is cultivated.

"There also the Chevalier, named after his eldest son, and Les Pucelles, named after his daughters—"

"Listen, I'm on an hourly rate. Could we just move it along?"

Hannibal tilts his head, his expression unreadable. Still, Will senses he has overstepped and bites his lips, cursing under his breath. But he has dealt with people like this in the past, and he knows where all the talking usually leads. To the illusion of seduction and the old but good request for a night for free. And Will has had enough of that kind of men.

However, Hannibal ignores Will's sassy remark. Instead, he walks across the room and sits on the sofa in front of the large windows of the living room, Los Angeles’ city lights spread out under his eyes. The suite offers quite the view, and that is the main reason he has chosen such an expensive accommodation. He can see it all, from West Hollywood to the beaches of Santa Monica, Rodeo Drive, the Golden Triangle. Hannibal has the feeling that if he paid enough attention, he could probably hear it too, the sound of life in a city like that. A synesthetic experience of some kind.

He takes a sip of wine. Turning towards the boy, who stands just behind him and hasn't said a word yet, he takes a long look and realizes that the skyline is not the only splendid view the suite is offering. He clears his throat.

"I understand that time is a major issue for you. I assume you are under the impression I won't pay you for your service, although I have proved otherwise, just earlier." Will opens his mouth to say something back, but Hannibal raises his hand and stops him. "Let's get through that. How much for the entire night?"

"You want me to stay here?"

Hannibal doesn't answer. He narrows his eyes, licks his lips and just waits.

"Five hundred dollars." He makes it sound like a challenge, the way he says it. A challenge is, indeed. No one would pay five hundred dollars for a night with him, not even his most loyal customers. If he asked for that amount of money every time he gets on the streets, he would have starved to death. Will's smirk, right now, is one that screams: you can't afford me. But to his surprise, the man takes out the wallet from his pocket, picks the dollar bills and tosses them on the coffee table near him.

Will steps forwards to grab the money, and counts the dollars just to find out Hannibal has given him one hundred more. That is the right way to handle business, he thinks and puts the money into the pocket of his jeans. When his raises his head again, he notices that Hannibal's eyes are on him; they haven't probably left him for a second.

"Los Angeles looks stunning tonight," the man says and leans his back on the couch. "Its view can almost take your breath away, don't you agree?"

Will glances at the sight outside the windows and nods. Since his arrival in the city, he hasn't had much love for it, but he cannot disagree. From the Penthouse windows of the Beverly Wilshire, LA shines like it has never done.

"Turn off the light, Will. I want to admire it better."

Will does as he says, and when he switches the light off, all he can do is stare at the skyline with his mouth open. The city lights blend into the starry night so that no one can really tell when one starts and the other ends, and darkness is like a cloak covered in flickering shiny dots. The moon is high in the sky, it lights the room, floods it with its glow.

He takes a step forward to take in the view, and Hannibal does the same. He watches the way the moonlight turns Will's curls into silver waves, the way it makes his pallid skin even paler. As the boy occupies the center of the space, and the impressive view of the city fades in front of the marvelous shapes of his body, Hannibal speaks again, and his voice can't hide the lust growing in him.

"Undress."

Will doesn't need to be asked twice. The first thing he does is kick off his shoes: his actions are unmannered, just the way Hannibal has imagined them. He throws the shoes away with a kick and then proceeds to remove his crop top and tosses it onto the floor. His eyes never leave Hannibal's face; his gaze is intense, lustful. His hands move until they reach the waistband of his jeans; they linger there for a little while. He starts to unfasten the buttons of his fly: each one produces a muffled "pop" sound, the only thing one can hear in the room, aside from their breathing. Will's is trembling, Hannibal notices with pleasure. The boy makes the jeans slide down his thighs, revealing a pair of white cotton briefs. Nothing sophisticated, but Hannibal hasn't expected otherwise. He pushes the jeans past his knees, lets them rest at his feet. Kicks them off too. Now he is naked but for his underwear.

Hannibal runs his eyes over his body, trying not to leave out any details. He dwells on his small waist, his narrow hips, his thin and slightly muscled legs. There is something feminine about the way the boy looks. Except, of course, for what he has inside his pants. His half erected cock shows through the cotton fabric. It looks big, promising, so much that Hannibal has to fight the urge to extend his hand, cup it, feel it as it grows hard under his touch. Instead, he crosses his legs and regards him with his usual smugness.

"You're not naked, though."

Will shakes his head. "No, I am not." He takes a couple of steps towards him, placing his crotch just inches away from Hannibal's face. "Want to do something about it?"

The smell of sex invades Hannibal's nostrils and makes it difficult for him not to lose his composure. He licks his lips, as the boy swing his hips in front of him, tempting him. He is well aware of the effect he has on Hannibal, he can read his need all over him, and smiles at the recognition.

"Yes. I want you to remove your underwear and sit on the chaise longue right there."

Will turns his head in the direction in which Hannibal is pointing. The white leather chaise longue stands under the window. Will hadn't even noticed it earlier, so caught up with the view first and with Hannibal then. He smiles at the man and reaches the spot, careful to let his hips swing while he walks, using the same old trick that has made his fortune. He hears Hannibal stirring, just behind his back.

He lays down, his waist up. He draws one knee up and the other leg he extends across the chaise, while he throws his head back and looks at Hannibal. The man watches as Will's smile slowly fades, replaced with a smoldering expression that makes Hannibal's groin pulse. Will bites his lower lip. He reaches to the briefs and pushes them down, raising his hips to ease the movement. When they get to his ankles, he grabs them and puts them on the floor.

"What about now?" he says, his voice a purr.

"Touch yourself."

Will smiles and his front teeth show up. He covers his mouth with his hands soon after, bites his knuckles as he does it. It's a way to say yes. He turns face down on the chaise longue, then raises himself on all fours, his back arched like the one of a cat. The curve of his body, standing in blacklight against the window, is like a smirk. The tip of his cock touches the leather of the chaise. The friction lasts just a second, but Will shivers from it, and a soft gasp escapes his lips. He leans back and sits on his ankles with his knees spread apart. He looks at Hannibal again, his curls fluctuate when he moves his head. The man takes a deep breath, the sight in front of his eyes so stunning he has almost forgotten that he has to.

Will doesn't face him. Hannibal can't tell if it's a matter of reticence, or just a way to let him see better, under the light of the moon, the lovely things he is doing with his body. He first plays with his nipples, rubs them, pinches them. His cock grows hard just for it. When he extends his finger to his groin, his cock leaks. He rolls the skin of his balls in between his fingers very gently and, with the other hand, squeezes the gleaming head of his cock between his thumb and index finger, sliding the foreskin to the tip before peeling it back down against the head. The first stroke tears a moan from him. Hannibal shifts in his seat, uncrosses and crosses his legs back again, his erection is throbbing inside his pants. But he doesn't dare to touch himself.

Will's hand slowly moves to the glans, but return back down quickly, before starting again the slow journey to the top. And again, and again. The sight is obscene. He brings his free hand to his mouth, sucks his fingers, bites them, as he groans and moans. With every stroke, his hips rock back and forth, almost uncontrollably, and his hand begins to pump faster and faster. He is close, Hannibal can tell by the way he trembles and breathes frantically against the hand he keeps on his mouth. Will closes his eyes, his head tilted back, and the orgasm hits him, semen spilling all over his chest.

It takes a while for him to steady his breath. When he opens his eyes again, he notices Hannibal is not there to watch him. He emerges, instead, on his side, a towel in his hands.

"Your room is the one at the end of the hall," the man says. His voice is firm, not a trace of arousal in it. If it weren't for the bulge in his trousers, Will would say the man hasn't enjoyed the show. "Feel free to use your shower as you please. Goodnight." And disappears like this, leaving Will naked and covered in cum on a super fancy white leather chaise longue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing fan art you saw in this chapter was made by [artbyvictoriaskye](artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com). You can reblog it from [here](http://artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com/post/145216518672/i-dont-know-if-yall-know-this-but)!
> 
> A couple of sidenotes:
> 
> \- I adore Beverly and I know her storyline seems kind of sad, but don't worry: she will have her revenge!  
> \- Mr and Mrs Schumaker are a reference to Dirty Dancing. It's one of my favourite romcom, alongside Pretty Woman, so I had to put them somewhere.  
> \- [This is the living room of the Penthouse suite where the scene takes place.](http://www.fourseasons.com/content/dam/fourseasons/images/web/BEV/BEV_252_aspect16x9.jpg/jcr:content/renditions/cq5dam.web.1280.720.jpeg) It's the actual suite. Beverly Wilshire could offer a free staying for all this publicity stunt LOL  
> \- Will white cotton briefs are a tribute to Justin Taylor from Queer as Folk US cause, seriously, [the teenage girl in me will never forget this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IiEKrvnQrSk)  
> \- The two songs that helped me writing this messy smut scene were: [Mea Culpa by Enigma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KG7Bs_BCC5w) and [Straight to number one by Touch and Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVh0SZPG4hs) (the last one is another renmants from Queer as Folk US).  
> \- If any of you is italian, I also wanted to add that for the last scene I took inspiration from a quote of a Roberto Vecchioni song, [La Bellezza](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAUi1kiTthM) (The beauty), which says: "Venezia nella luce del lido prima del tramonto ha la forma del tuo corpo che mi ruba lo sfondo" ("Venice in the light of the shore before the sunset has the shape of your body that steals the background") (Okay, this translation probably sucks, but still).
> 
> If you liked this chapter, let me know with a comment. I'll appreciate it so much!!  
> Xoxo


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [artbyvictoriaskye for her extraordinary work as a beta <3](artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com/)

The soft morning light breaks through the large windows of the living room, slithers across it and reaches the hallway to meet Will's bare feet. The floor feels cold under them. He wraps the hotel bathrobe tighter around himself, ties it around his waist. Yawns.

He had some good hours of sleep the night before. He had taken a shower and crashed on the bed soon after, with his hair soaking wet and the bathrobe resting on the floor. No attention was given to his clothes either, which Will had left at the foot of the bed. When he woke up, he almost tripped over his shoes, and suddenly remembered why Beverly has yelled at him on a daily basis.

His stomach growls. He hasn't eaten anything since the moment he has left his flat and, as he walks down the hallway, he hopes that the sizzling sound he hears belongs to something frying in a pan, and not to some sort of hunger hallucination. With stealthy steps, he arrives at one corner of the suite that he hasn't yet explored. It reveals a huge marble kitchen, completed with a large dining table for eight people; a savory smell fills the air. The boy soon spots the source of the sizzling, the frying pan on the counter and Hannibal Lecter behind it.

He wears an apron; it has the Hotel logo embroidered on it, identical to the one on the bathrobe Will wears. The boy finds himself running a mindless finger over the embroidery, as he leans against the door frame. He observes the scene, the aura of domesticity that surrounds it. While a pancake fries on the pan, Hannibal busy himself on the countertop, slicing figs and apples, and he's so focused on his task that he hasn't even noticed Will's presence. Or so it seems. 

"Hey."

Hannibal raises his eyes, and smiles, more out of politeness than for a genuine surprise, but still, the boy appreciates it nevertheless. His prominent lips are lovely when turned upwards.

"Good morning, Will," he says. "I sincerely hope you're hungry. I've prepared something for us." He gestures towards the fruits, meticulously placed in the dishes. He looks very proud of himself. Will could swear the man's chest has swollen during the brief show off.

"I thought we could eat on the balcony," he continues. "The weather is remarkably fine today."

Will glances at blue, cloudless sky out of the window. Yes, the weather is fine, indeed. But there is nothing remarkable in it. That's how it works in Los Angeles, where summer lasts twelve months. He considers saying this to Hannibal but, on a second thought, he decides not to spoil the man's amusement.

“It works for me.” 

"Good. You may wait for me there if you want. I am nearly done."

Will nods, and hopes that his stomach doesn't decide to make weird loud sounds just now. The smell of pancakes has made him even more hungry. It’s the first time a client makes him breakfast. It’s the first time a client offers him food, in general. And although he would have found it weird if done by someone else, with Hannibal it seems like a natural progression. He makes it to the balcony, careless about being still barefoot, and lets the sun rays warm his cheeks.

Will finds out Hannibal has already set a table. Made of off-white wrought iron with classic scrollwork details, it radiates an antique allure, as much as the vase of pale pink tulips placed at the center. He looks around: the whole terrace is filled with flowers: azaleas, calla lilies, daffodils, dahlias. The sight makes his heart swell. Will lowers just a little to breathe deeply their scent; it's nearly intoxicating and yet marvelous.

Hannibal appears soon after. The apron is gone; in its place a light shade of gray waistcoat, the same color as the rest of the suit. His tie has nothing extravagant this time: it's a plain ivory silk tie and, in a way, it matches the atmosphere of the place. He carries two dishes with him, perfectly balanced on his left arm, and bears a bowl in his hands.

"Take a seat, Will," and the boy complies. 

The pancakes' appearance is even more delicious than their smell, assuming that something can be tasty for the eyes as well as for the nose. The figs and apples are arranged pleasingly, sliced and layered between the cakes, and Hannibal perfects the aesthetic by dolloping a spoonful of yogurt to each dish. He takes a seat as well then and puts a napkin on his legs. Will can't help but chuckle.

"You prepared all this by yourself."

Hannibal nods. Then he asks: "Is something not of your liking?" He seems sincerely concerned.

"What? No, it's great." Will grabs one of the pancakes with his hands, bites into it. There are also slices of pears. "Lovely."

Hannibal watches the boy as he gracelessly eats his breakfast, and tries not to give into a sense of distaste, although it's hard given the circumstances. He picks the knife and fork by the plate's side, raises them mid-air to let Will notice them and succeeds in turning the boy's face into bright red. A pleasant sight, he has to admit.

"So," says the boy, now using the knife to cut the pancakes. "Do you have a problem with touching? Is it some kind of sexual disorder?"

Hannibal quirks his eyebrows in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well," he starts, taking a bite, "you didn't touch me last night, nor yourself. I mean, for all I know." Hannibal opens his mouth to answer, but Will precedes him and goes on talking. "It might be a fear of physical contact. It's called Haphephobia. I've read about it in a John Birtchnell book. Are you familiar with his work?"

Hannibal blinks. Very few people can leave him speechless, and the boy in front of him, with a pretty face and such, appears to be one of them. How he ended up in a Beverly Wilshire suite talking about psychological theories with a hooker he met accidentally on Hollywood Boulevard, well, that he still can't explain.

"Of course I am." He leans back in the chair, now really enthralled by the conversation, not because there's something true in Will's assumptions (a fact that he intends to prove as soon as he gets the chance), but for the way he speaks about it: Hannibal detects passion in his words.

"I thought so. Birtchnell says that people with an exaggerate tendency of protecting their personal space can develop a fear of being touched. But you didn't give me that impression. I mean, I’m here, this is your personal space. But, in the end, who knows? Maybe your problem is restricted to the sexual sphere. Have you been sexually abused? No, you wouldn't be with me right now."

Will seems to ponder about it. His eyes unfocus, and his mind runs fast as he tries to find an explanation to the puzzle. Hannibal can almost hear the cogs turning. He comes back to earth a few seconds later. He notices the man's squinted eyes and narrow lips, and probably misjudging his expression as one of annoyment, he asks: "Am I being rude?"

You can't imagine how much. "Yes, you are, actually."

Will's lips form a small circle, a hushed 'oh' comes out of them. Once again, red creeps up his cheeks, and he rushes to apologize. "I didn't intend to. I am sorry," he says, and stays quiet for a while.

In any other occasion, in the company of anyone else, Hannibal Lecter wouldn't have endured the same attitude. He frowns upon rudeness, especially when directed at him. The levity with which Will has intruded into Hannibal's innermost and intimate privacy, making assumptions about his sexual history, is the sort of behaviour he would never put up with. In any other occasion, in the company of anyone else, he would have drawn a line there and then. Instead, he says: "Tell me more about your knowledge on the matter."

It turns out Will studied psychology for a brief period of his life. He wanted to get a degree in Criminology, enter the FBI and be a profiler ("Why a profiler, though? It's a very specific job, and not an everyday ambition," Hannibal had asked, and to this Will just shrugged. "I guess I’ve watched too much tv"), but University applications went against expectations, and aspirations were put aside.

"And here I am," the boy concludes, smiling. "Having breakfast in a luxurious suite in a Four Season Hotel. It didn't end badly."

But Will's pleased expression is just a terrible lie. No matter how hard he tries to accept his fate, a part of him always hopes that someday things will change for him, and for Beverly too, who has been living in that crumbling flat for too many years and has lost faith entirely. 

Will thinks about her as he gets up from his seat and reaches the iron railing of the terrace, drawn by the cheerful noises coming from the Hotel pool underneath the balcony. He leans forwards, takes a look. People enjoy themselves just below him: they swim, plunge, some of them sunbathe, everyone laughs. The fact that life is easier for certain individuals but not for others still astonishes him. He closes his eyes, and it doesn't take a lot for him to picture himself and Beverly having fun too like everyone should at their age. When he was younger, he didn't believe that money could buy happiness, but life had proven him wrong.

"Four thousand dollars."

Hannibal's voice coming out all of a sudden distracts Will from his thoughts. Still not processing the meaning of his words, he turns towards the man and watches him with a quizzical look.

"I'll be in town until Sunday. I’d like to be in your company. "

"And you are offering me four thousand dollars for that,” the boy says.

"I am, indeed. It's five more nights plus the days. I reckon it a good remuneration. Would you consider spending the week with me, Will?"

Will gapes. This time, it's his turn to quirk his eyebrows in disbelief. Four thousand dollars is an incredible amount of money. He could go back to his hometown, start again. Take Beverly with him. It is, by all means, enough and even more than he could ever ask. Will studies the man as if to find a sign of second-thought and, then, nods at the pool.

"If I say yes, can I use that?"

It's an unexpected and also silly request. But it makes Hannibal smile. "Feel free to do as you wish. You’re my guest." 

A guest he wants to pay dearly, Will considers, but he doesn't comment further and let the subject go. He focuses instead on what the few next days would be like if he decided to stay. As much as he loves the place and its comforts, as much as he needs the money, the perspective of feeling again the humiliation of his condition as it happened the day before doesn't thrill Will at all. Hannibal must sense this, probably for the way Will's face has turned into a more pained one.

"Is something wrong?" he asks promptly.

Will looks for a way to put his doubts into words that doesn't let him sound silly, but then he just shrugs. Being one of the rich guys, Hannibal will find Will silly nevertheless. There is no way out to get over the conundrum. So, in the end, he exhales and explains it.

"I do not have the proper clothes." His clothes are the ones of a whore, he was about to say, before stopping himself. The humiliation still burns, he hasn't been able to shake it off yet. But Hannibal's reaction is one of the least expected.

"I'll pay for new clothes," he says, as he gets up from his seat and removes the two dishes from the table. He goes inside, heading towards the kitchen. "I am about to go out," he continues from there, "but I'll leave you a check."

Will nods, and he almost feels sorry for being such a burden. He promises to himself he'll put up with it soon, give the man anything he wants, treat him like a prince.

"Clothes should be your last worry, Will," Hannibal adds. "As far as I am concerned, you can walk around naked and I'll be more than fine with it."

At this, Will shows a mischievous smile, and turns again, facing away from him. He leans to the side, putting his weight on one foot, and shows off the curve of his hip. Even covered by the bathrobe, his body looks exceptional. Hannibal can remember every detail of it; so stuck in his head it is, that he could draw it from memory alone. The man shares the same smile as his mind wanders, reliving last night's happenings, thinking about how indecent and yet arousing Will was as he stroked himself.

"Naked, you say?"

Will lets the bathrobe slide down his arms and legs, and it falls on the ground, making no sound. Or maybe it's Hannibal that hasn't heard a thing because he is left once again mesmerized by Will's shapes. His bottom is round, prominent; his skin so pale that Hannibal can't stop thinking about the marks he could leave him if he grabbed him hard. He spots a bruises or two, a sign that he wasn't the only one who had such kind of thoughts. But they instantly bother him, because he is not the one who made them in the first place and, for some reason, he wishes they could be his own and no one else's.

The sight is so pleasing that Hannibal forgets about being outside. Will stands naked on a terrace, which is not a shared one, but is visible from every point of view. And considering the time of the day, and the shouts coming from children at the pool underneath them, Will's action could cause them a lot of trouble.

With reluctance and a chuckle he can't avoid, he moves towards the boy, lowers to grab the bathrobe and puts it on Will's shoulders. The boy slips his arm into a sleeve, then does the same with the other. When he finishes, Hannibal stands still and doesn't move his hands, which stay raised mid-air, close to the boy's chest. It's Will that switches his position, turns around himself and faces him; their noses are inches away from each other. Hannibal licks his lips.

"Thank you," Will whispers. His mouth is so inviting. "Just one thing, though."

Hannibal can't stop getting closer and closer, as if under the effect of some spell. "What is it?"

"I don't usually kiss on the mouth."

Will doesn't know why the 'usually' bit slipped out, but it just did. He watches the man, as his eyes flicker and his lips part in an expression of bewilderment. It's just for a second, then he composes himself again.

"Neither do I."

When Hannibal lowers his arms, steps back and goes inside the house, Will realizes he has been trapped into some sort of embrace that he immediately misses, as a first response. But he pushes away the thought, ties his bathrobe once again, and follows Hannibal.

The man leaves soon after. A work meeting, or something alike. He wears his jacket before going out, and leaves a check on a counter, but Will doesn't look at the numbers written on it right away, in an effort of being polite. Instead, he enters his room, picks his pair of jeans from the floor and digs into his pockets, searching for his mobile. When he finds it, he checks the screen. Four missed calls. Beverly must be incredibly worried. 

He presses the green button (because his phone has buttons and is probably older than him) while Hannibal's still around the house. The man taps a finger on the countertop where the check lies, mouths a goodbye and, as soon as he closes the door behind his back, Beverly answers the call.

"Graham! What the heck— Where the hell are you?"

"Calm down, Bev. I'm alive and well."

"You scared the shit out of me! What happened?"

"Well." Will reaches the sofa, the one where the day before Hannibal sat, and sinks into it. It's softer than he has imagined. He makes himself cozy, passes a hand through his hair, then curls a lock around his fingers. "I am at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel."

"Will you take the bus from there?"

The boy furrows his brow, missing the meaning of Beverly's question, but realizes soon she must have got it wrong. "No, I mean, I  _ am _ at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel." Silence. Will bites his lower lips not to let a chuckle escape. She will have a hard time believing him, but could he blame her? He looks around, glancing at the 10-foot ceiling and the marble mosaic on the floor. He cannot believe it himself.

" _Wait_ ," she starts, stretching the word, "you're at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel."

"It's what I've been trying to tell you."

"And you are not going to take a bus from there, so it means that you are  _ staying _ at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel!"

"Huh-huh, yep, affirmative."

The screams Beverly emits are so loud that Will jumps the moment he hears them. She hammers him with questions, which he answers as he wanders around the suite. He talks about Hannibal's car, while he sits in each sofa of the living room to verify if they are comfortable as they seem to be. He tells her about the man's job and the conversation they had about Will's ambitions in life and, as he does so, he turns on the 55-inch flat screen television, switching channels to find out it broadcasts stations from all over the world. He enters the kitchen and mentions the story about the wine that the man had told him the night before. He opens the fridge, takes a look inside as he reels off the breakfast Hannibal made for him, and his mouth waters at the thought. She asks if he stinks, and Will, glancing briefly at the powder room, says that no, actually he smells good. He ends up in the main bedroom, which belongs to Hannibal, while Beverly states that the man must have something wrong with him.

"Is he ugly?"

Will steps into the walk-in closet, runs his eyes over all the suits hanging in there. He thinks about the clothes he was wearing when he met the guy, and shame hits him again. "No, he is not ugly, Bev. He is quite charming, to say the truth." Will figures it is something about the man's know-it-all manners that strike him, or maybe the way he smirks at him, every time Will enters the room.

Beverly mocks him a little, as he walks into the ensuite bathroom, an oversized shower and a deep-soaking tub.

"Holy shit!" The tub is so big it can actually serve as a pool, and Will considers he could avoid the common pool altogether, and use this instead. He almost wouldn’t detect any difference.

"What?" comes Beverly's fretted voice. "What did you find out? Was he hiding a whip in a drawer? He was, right? He is one of those fucking twisted rich guys. I knew it. He couldn't be perfect, after all."

Will hears her monologue and can't help a laugh. "Beverly," he starts, but she continues, makes it hard to stop her.

"Darling, I know, you believed he could have been your golden ticket, but it's okay. Shit happens—"

Will's laughter is louder now, and he goes back to the bedroom, jumping on the bed, the mattress so soft that it makes him bounce a couple of times. 

"What are you laughing at, William? I am saying it for you. Just pick up your shit and runs away from the place. Meet me at home."

"Beverly Katz!" He tries not to laugh again while he says her name. "Could you listen up for one second?" She calms herself down and does as she is asked.

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter gave me five hundred dollars for last night's performance. He offered me four thousand to stay the week with him. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. He is not ugly, he is not smelly, he is not twisted," although he pauses to this, well aware that Hannibal's sexual tastes might turn out to be unconventional, after what had happened in the living room. "He has proven himself trustworthy."

Beverly doesn't seem really convinced, but she doesn't argue further. 

"Now, he left some extra money so I could buy some clothes, but the problem is: where the hell do I go? I need some good stuff."

"You're in fucking Beverly Hills."

"I know that."

"Go to Rodeo Drive, baby!"

It's not that Will has forgotten about Rodeo Drive. How can one forget about it and its luxurious stores, when every damn person who arrives in the city wants first thing to visit it? But those stores are too fancy, and therefore unaffordable, for him, so there's no doubt he didn't take them into consideration in the first place.

He walks along the crowded sidewalk now, his eyes wide in amazement.  The place feels like some kind of parallel universe. Everyone looks hot, everyone looks rich, everyone look super duper fashionable. In his brief walk, he has already spotted a couple of celebrities (which is a rare event for hookers, even if they live in L.A.) and so many sunglasses-wearing women that he has felt nauseated at some point. 

Some of them look at him, and their gaze is not one of admiration. The boy still wears the clothes from the past night, after all. His crop top feels even shorter when the people are staring at him, even when they look even more ridiculous in their latest fashionable clothes. He keeps a steady pace, though, and decides they won't let his spirit down. Thanks to Hannibal's check, he will soon be one of them.

Will skips over the stores of famous brands. No Saint Lauren for him, or Giorgio Armani, for all that matter. Ralph Lauren's building seems almost scary for how fancy it is and watching Hugo Boss's windows gives him the same vibes. He chooses, in the end, a small private boutique. It looks as posh as the others, but at least the name on the sign doesn't belong to a worldwide famous brand. So he enters, no hesitation with him.

The store is cozy. From the entrance, he can see the saleswoman standing behind the counter. She has untamed red curly hair and gives him a disapproving gaze when he nods at her to say hi. But Will decides not to care. Instead, he wanders around the shop and makes a mental list of the clothes he will need during the week. He needs at least a pair of trousers and two shirts (the hotel would probably have a laundry service after all). Only a jacket would do, and same goes with the shoes, but he needs to abound with the underwear, maybe opting for something nicer than his white cotton briefs. He considers buying a suit as well, in case Hannibal wants him to take part in a formal event. 

In that very moment, his eyes fall on a mannequin wearing a Tom Ford. Will knows this only because it's written on the tag, which doesn't show the price. It's a three-piece, dark but not black; it's more like a shadowy brown, while the tie and the pocket square are gold. On the waistcoat a gold chain that goes with a pendant and a couple of cuff links. Will touches the fabric, and it's soft under his fingertips. He thinks this would look stunning on Hannibal, but he could at least try to be as charming as he is. Just as he is about to turn and call the saleswoman, he hears her clearing her throat behind him.

"May I help you?"

Freddie Lounds is used to this kind of people. They are no more than wanderers; none of them is interested in purchasing anything, but still they walk around, go into stores and make her waste time. For long has she tried to convince her boss to change the boutique rules, requiring an appointment for the entry, but it was all in vain. So she has developed a perfect system to get rid of time-wasters, which involves a bitchy face and cool tone. 

The boy looks almost instantaneously intimidated. He gestures towards the Tom Ford suit, gulps and then asks in a hushed tone:

"How much is this?"

Freddie inhales deeply before answering. It takes a lot of nerve to enter an expensive store like the one she runs wearing a crop top and a pair of muddy sneakers and ask the price of the most expensive suit they sell. It takes a lot of patience not to snap. "I don't think it would fit you," is what she says, and it's the most polite thing that came into her mind.

"I'm sorry," the boy responds bitterly, "I didn't ask if it would fit, I asked how much it was."

She shows her best smile, all her white teeth exposed. If he hasn't taken the hint yet, he will soon. "I know."

Will body goes tense and blood rushes to his head. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" The lady blinks. Her round blue eyes look innocent, but Will knows better than to believe her.

"Excuse me?" she asks.

"I have money. Money to spend in here."

"Look, I don't think we have anything for you." She emphasizes the "you" as if to point out how different he is from everyone else inside the store. There was so much distaste in her tone that Will almost expected she would end the sentence by calling him a whore. "You're obviously in the wrong place," she continues. "Please, leave."

It's imperative. Will turns, stomps towards the door and storms outside. He is so angry that he doesn't even notice how quickly he gets to the hotel, his pace accelerated as much as his heartbeat. Stupid saleswoman and stupid rich people. He will go into Hannibal's suite and pack his things. It was as he anticipated. He is not made for a place like Beverly Hills.

When Jimmy Price spots him in the hall, the boy is marching across it, heading towards the elevator. He can't believe his eyes. Although he's used to customers hiring escorts, normally those escorts don't stick around for long. But here he is, the boy, gaining the attention of everyone in the room once again. Jimmy can't help but reach towards him and just before he disappears into one of the elevators, he grabs his wrist and turns him around. Not a classy gesture, in all honesty, and he knows he will receive some notes of disconcert from the hotel manager for this, but right now he doesn't care.

"What?" the boy bursts out, and an old lady watches them in horror. "What? I can't even go into my room now?"

His room. Jimmy doesn't point out how ridiculous that sentence sounded, because the boy is nervous, and he doesn't know how to deal with this kind of person. The boy might suddenly snap or throw a tantrum in the hallway. Jimmy realizes he has only one option at this point. "Could you follow me for a second, sir?"

"Oh, you 'sir' me now? Great. I'll follow you, of course. Do you want to call the police?" The boy's bitter tone is loud, and for each step they take, Jimmy is forced to send apologizing looks to the other guests. He puts his hand on the small of the boy's back, but the gesture doesn't calm him down. 

He shuts his mouth only when they reach the hotel manager's office door. Jimmy knocks, while the boy crosses his arms on his chest stubbornly and starts tapping his foot on the floor. Then a warm voice from inside lets them in.

"Mr. Crawford," Jimmy says to the man sitting at the desk. He takes a step forward and enters the office. "I'd like to introduce you—" He pauses.

Still moving his foot, the boy who stands behind him comes to his aid.

"William Graham."

"Right," Jimmy goes on. "I'd like to introduce you to William Graham . He came last night with a hotel guest."

"And I intend to stay."

He didn't, in truth, until now. The man and Mr. Crawford exchange a telling look. From their faces, it looks like they are going to call the police, and Will realizes he doesn't know if they're entitled to do so. And if they're not, will they throw him out of the place? How would Hannibal react if he didn't find him in the suite? He bites his lips, and when the man at the desk asks him to take a seat, he complies, but not without giving him a disdained glance.

"Mr. Graham," the man at the desk starts, "are you here with someone?"

William Graham looks at him straight in the eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Nods.

"I thought so."

If one doesn't count how angry and on the verge the boy looks, William Graham has something nice in him. Maybe it's his facial features, delicate and feminine, that gives the impression. Or maybe the fact that Jack could detect a hint of fear in his eyes, hiding behind the rage.

"As you might know," Jack says, "the Beverly Wilshire is a very respectable hotel. That means that what happens in other places, doesn't happen here."

The boy lifts an eyebrow.

"Any additional guest must be signed in. Did anyone inform you about that?"

"Hannibal didn't say anything," Will starts.

As soon as he hears the name, the man's face softens. "Hannibal Lecter?" he asks, and when Will confirms, the man chuckles. He puts his elbows on the desk and intertwines his fingers. "I understand," he says.

Hannibal Lecter is possibly the most loyal customer of the Beverly Wilshire. Not only are his visits frequent, every time he plans a trip to L.A., he also makes sure to book the most beautiful and expensive suites. He represents the ideal guest of a Four Season hotel: elegant, rich and willing to spend money. Now that Jack knows all that, he feels more inclined to turn a blind eye on the matter.

"You could have just said so." The man smiles, and Will looks at him quizzically. "In this case, I'm willing to overlook what has happened. I only suggest dressing in a more appropriate manner next time. This way, you won't have any trouble with our staff."

Here it is again, the scolding about the dress code, which is starting to make Will sick. He rolls his eyes. "I could do that if only people would let me." He searches into his pockets and then slams on the desk the check Hannibal has left him. "I have money, but no one wants to sell me anything. How does that sound?"

The hotel manager glances at the check, then at him, and eventually leans back on the chair and picks up the phone.

"Phyllis, this is Jack Crawford. I'd like to ask you a favor."

Thirty minutes and a lot of imprecations later, Will finds himself in another stupid fancy boutique but, this time, it's not an obnoxious red-haired woman that welcomes him. Phyllis's hair is frizzy too, but her voice is soft, and she has the manners of a mother. Will finds himself suddenly fascinated by the way she smiles and reassures him. She even praises him for his figure ("You're such a beautiful boy, dear!") and for once it's nice to hear those words outside the bedroom and far away from the street.

In the end, he finds everything he needs. Back in the suite, he decides to try the clothes on once again, just for the sake of watching himself in the mirror looking so polished. He chooses Hannibal's master bedroom to do so, not caring about any privacy violation he could commit. Earlier, he has spotted an enormous mirror inside the walk-in closet, and that is the only thing he can think about now.

Will wouldn't consider himself vain; on the contrary, he doesn't usually care about his physical appearance and goes around with the same shirt for days. But looking at his image, at his body wrapped in a thousand dollar suit, is somehow hypnotic. Will gets so much into it that he doesn't even notice Hannibal's steps as he arrives back home.

The suite is silent, except for some muffled noises coming from the bedroom. Hannibal drops the keycard of the Hotel on one shelf at the entrance, and draws near the room, his brow furrowed in confusion. The man is ready to snap, scold Will for his lack of discretion. In honesty, he thought him more considerate than that. But as he enters the room and follows the noises in the walk-in closet, he finds himself incapable of forming any thoughts. The sight that Will offers leaves him, once again, speechless.

The boy wears a tailored suit. Dark gray melange, if his eyes don't deceive him. The trousers are flat-fronted with a sharp crease to the leg, tight on his bottom, and they show the crotch bulge, as Hannibal notices looking at the mirror. The jacket is single-breasted, cut in a slim fit and shaped at the chest, adorned by a black silk tie on a white shirt, which Will fumbles with, his face away from Hannibal and his eyes focused on his figure.

Eventually, he runs his hand through his curls, pulling them back and letting them fall again all around his head, messily. His face traits are so delicate that they resemble the ones of a greek nymph. Feminine is the curve of his plump lips, feminine is the curve of his nose. And piercing is his gaze, especially when he notices Hannibal's presence. He spots Hannibal in a corner of the mirror, and for a split second their eyes lock, just enough to make Will realize he isn't supposed to be there.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry!"

He runs past Hannibal in a quick move that makes their shoulders brush together. Will's scent reaches the man's nostrils, and it's so sweet and inviting that Hannibal inadvertently tilts his head towards it as if to follow it. Slowly, he turns towards the bed, where the boy sits now. At his side, a pile of new clothes that had escaped his keen eyes moments before. Will works on his right shoe (in black polished leather, with a lace-up closure), removes it while his hair falls on his forehead, hiding his mortified eyes and his blushed cheeks.

"It's fine, the amenities of this room are tempting," he grants and takes a step closer. "You look superb in this suit. Stunning."

Will, untying his left shoe now, freezes as he hears the compliment. Then his face melts into a smile. "It's Burberry," he says, looking at Hannibal expectantly as if waiting for a praise.

Hannibal grants it. And then Will starts telling about the Tom Ford suit he wanted to try on, and the impolite red haired woman who stopped him from doing it ("That was very rude of her" was Hannibal's comment. "Yeah, stupid bitch," Will's reply). And then the front desk man with a funny face that took him in the Hotel manager's office ("Can you believe it? As if I was a burglar or something"), and the nice woman he met right after, Phyllis, who helped him find the Burberry suit, alongside the other clothes he needed.

Will talks with the speed of a moving train, adding details he has forgotten about from time to time, and his monologue results in a confusing mess. But Hannibal doesn't mind. He could hear him speak all the day long and he would still be amazed by the variations of his voice or his pointy ears that wiggle at every change of expression.

"I mean, clothes are not really my thing," the boy is saying as Hannibal takes a step forward and studies what Will has bought during the day. "But I guess I did a good job." The man lowers and runs a finger over the soft fabric of the shirts laying on the bed, touching each button till he reaches the collar. He hums at Will in acknowledgment. "One could say I have  _ a certain taste. _ " He chuckles, as though it was hard to believe it. But he's right, and Hannibal wants him to know but, at the same time, he likes to see him uncertain and shy. He stays silent. "And I'm telling you: I could do it again if only I had enough money." Hannibal's hand parts from the clothes and goes to Will's hair. His fingers brush a wild curl and, just like this, Will stops talking. He raises his chin, and catches Hannibal's eyes, and that's enough for him to realize where this is going.

The boy smirks, while Hannibal's fingers move slowly from Will's hair to his cheek, passing over his jaw and ending on his lips, where they linger for a bit. Will opens his mouth and, tentatively, he pushes his tongue out, licking Hannibal's fingers: just the tips, at first, and then, with fervid movements of his tongue, he laps all over the length, until Hannibal's pushes them (two) into his mouth, making him almost choke on them.

Will doesn't break the eye contact. This Hannibal notices, and it surprises him a bit, considering the boy didn't seem fond of it. Yet, his gaze is steady, and he makes obscene sounds as he sucks, and licks, and runs his teeth on his skin. Hannibal feels his own cock thickening and Will, sensing this, cups it with his hand, while his jaw keeps moving. 

There is uncertainty in the way Will proceeds. Touching Hannibal seems like a risk, but a risk that he both needs and wants to make. Luckily, the man doesn't show annoyance. Instead, he gradually closes his eyes as Will rubs his palm on his growing erection, and let his head fall back just a bit, exposing his throat and his Adam's apple.

Hannibal withdraws his hand, then, and wipes the trails of saliva on the boy's chin. Will's jaw is square and big, and Hannibal grasps it full hand, presses his sopping fingers into his skin, leaving marks. The boy smiles mischievously at this, or at least he tries because his lips are puckered in the grasp, making any movement impossible. But his eyes gives it all away. 

He unbuttons Hannibal's slacks, and his gaze is fixed on the man. He doesn't even blink, or move his eyeballs. Once he has undone the last button, Hannibal releases his jaw, and Will pushes his face onto his crotch, inhales, mouths on his covered bulge. He smells Hannibal's craving, and the man's cock twitches in need of more. Will closes his eyes, breathing deeply in, and presses small soundless kisses down and up the length of his penis, still trapped inside the underwear. He pulls out his tongue then, licking greedily on his erection, but it's a funny taste in Will's mouth, and he wants more, wants to do more, at least, to please the man. Thus, he leans back, looks at Hannibal again, whose face is relaxed  — lips parted and eyes rolled back — and runs his palm against the man's lower abdominal to draw his attention. Hannibal snaps his eyes open, and before Will can formulate his question, he says:

"In the top drawer of the nightstand."

Condoms. They need them. As long as Hannibal would love to feel Will's tongue on his sensitive skin, he can’t diminish a matter like this. Will lays across the bed and extends an arm to reach for the nightstand, and Hannibal's vision nearly sways as he gets a full sight of him: the narrow waist, the splayed apart legs, Will's own erection...

Hannibal can't help but lower over him, grabbing one of Will's hips. The boy turns abruptly toward him and puffs out a laugh, while his hand is still searching for the condoms. "Don't be eager," he chuckles, "I'm almost there." But Hannibal can't hear him, enthralled in the action, kissing Will's abdomen, pulling out his shirt from the trousers and tasting the skin underneath. 

Will hums in pleasure. He finds the pack of condoms in the drawer, but as he extends his hand towards the man, they slip away from his grip and fall on the bed, next to them. He yanks his head back, while Hannibal lands his mouth on his throat — never kissing, just breathing in his scent. But it's hot nevertheless, and Will bites his lips to stop a moan that escapes anyway. Hannibal's erection grinds against his now, and he raises his hips, wanting more, getting more. He grabs Hannibal by his shoulder, pulling at his jacket that Hannibal's still wearing, and his body restlessly twitches under Hannibal's firm grip. He can't control the feeling anymore, and precum floods out of his cock, wetting his briefs. "I'm almost there," he says again.

To his words, Hannibal responds by tightening his grip on Will's hip and speeding up his thrusts. With his hands, he guides the boy's movements and thrusts harder between his legs, panting against his throat and jawline, until Will can't take it anymore and cries out, overwhelmed with the passion of his climax. Spurts of semen soak his briefs, and it's an awkward sensation to come in his pants, especially when, for said pants, one has paid a fortune, but Will can't think about it too much, more focused on the man above him. He notices how silently Hannibal experiences his pleasure, unlike any other client he has had: there is sobriety in his bliss.

The man comes soon after, releasing a groan into Will's neck. The feeling makes Will's cock twitch, and he rolls up his eyes, as if ready to do it again from the beginning. But he is too tired to move, and Hannibal must feel the same because he collapses over him and then rolls away from him and onto his back. He covers his face with his hands and chuckles.

"I apologize for how this intercourse has turned out."

Will raises on his elbow, eyes Hannibal's underwear, soaked too, and leans back again. "It's fine. I liked it this way."

He smiles at him, and they stay like this for a while, staring at the ceiling (and at each other from time to time) and gaining some composure. Then Hannibal sits up.

"I'm going to shower," he says, "and I suggest you do the same. Dinner will be ready in a few hours." Will nods but doesn't move. So Hannibal continues: "I'll see you then."

He moves toward the bathroom, as Will takes the hint and grabs his things from the bed. But before shutting the door, he turns towards the boy one last time. "I'd like to see you once more in this suit if you don't mind."

Will smiles. Of course not. He can't wait to wear it again for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of references:  
> \- [This is the pancake's recipe](http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/eggs-recipes/protein-pancakes/).  
> \- John Birtchell is the author of [How human relate](https://www.amazon.com/How-Humans-Relate-Interpersonal-Intelligence/dp/0275944050/189-8304567-0813545?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0). You can find some extracts on GoogleBooks.  
> \- [This is the Tom Ford's three-piece suit](http://i1.adis.ws/i/tom_ford/SS16_MENS_LOOK_6.jpg?%24collectiongrid%24).
> 
> Let me know your opinion on this chapter: leave me a comment or [write me on tumblr](http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/eggs-recipes/protein-pancakes/) :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally it's here.  
> (Thank you to the lovely Victoria who is the best beta reader of the world!)

Sat at one end of a comfy white leather sofa in the living room, Will closes his eyes. The dinner that Hannibal had prepared for him was delicious, and this Will could already imagine, having admired the man's skill during breakfast. But this time, he had outdone himself. He had served two courses, both from Italian culinary tradition, so elaborate that Will had to ask how he had made it in such a short time.

"Agnolotti di asparagi e aragosta," he had said, putting the dish in front of him. Will had asked him to repeat the name two times before he could make the words out, and still, he had asked him a third time because he liked the way the words sounded from Hannibal's lips. And Hannibal most likely had realized this, because the next time, as he approached him with the dish in his hand, he pronounced the name carefully, articulating each consonant that, coming from him, didn't sound foreign at all.

"Scaloppine di vitello con funghi, Marsala e timo." He had looked at Will, putting the dish on the table, and their eyes locked. Will hadn't been able to hide a smile and, without a glimpse at the food, he had said: "I love this." Hannibal had smiled back, knowingly.

He feels stuffed now. He opens his eyes, stares at the television, which he had turned on just because he could, and not out of any interest, and then turns towards Hannibal, who's reading some papers at the other end of the sofa. He wears reading glasses; they make him look older, adding something dad-ish to his persona. Will wonders if he has children. He asks as much.

"I do," the man answers, casting the papers aside and taking off the glasses. "A girl. She is not my biological daughter, though. But I do love her as if she were my own. Why do you ask?"

Will shrugs and tries to picture in his mind the man he has been around in the last twenty-four hours, with a child. He realizes it doesn't come easy. Hannibal Lecter seems made of stern looks and composed manners, and those things don't work well with the bustle of children's behaviour. Does he play with her? Is he willing to sit at a pink table and pretend to drink tea with her dolls? Does he let her paint his nails? The thought itself makes him giggle, but it's lovely at the same time. Will's not sure he would be a dad in the future, but if it'd ever happen, he would do all those silly things in a heartbeat.

In the meantime, Hannibal has focused on the tv. The volume is low for Will had turned it down not to disturb Hannibal's reading, but the man listens to it attentively, regardless. He looks tired; his eyes are slightly circled and, from time to time, they attempt to close. Yet, he doesn't appear particularly interested in going to bed, and stays on the sofa, with Will at his side, savouring the company of another human being just for the sake of it. He must have such a lonely life.

Will extends a leg towards him, moving it freely without the suit. He had taken it off soon after dinner and, instead of pajamas, he had opted for a cotton shirt and briefs. He had not even bought pajamas, in truth: Hannibal's words about nudity had been stuck in his head ever since he had said them, and Will had seriously considered walking around the suite as the day he was born. But the briefs had worked just fine.

With the tips of his toes, he pokes Hannibal on the hips. It's a soft touch, more like a tease, nothing that could be labeled as rude. As a reflex, Hannibal grabs his ankle. He doesn't move his eyes from the tv, but he mustn't be paying much attention to it as he starts drawing circles around Will's malleolus with his thumb, even though he wants to play the stubborn and not show any interest. Will moves his toes against the fabric of Hannibal's shirt once again and, this time, tries to slide his foot along the man's thigh. But Hannibal's grip gets tighter, and Will finds himself trapped between his hands. It's then that the man decides to turn and look at Will.

"Am I tickling you?" the boy asks, amusement in his voice. Hannibal shakes his head. "Good," Will replies and resumes his task of being annoying. Hannibal groans then, and Will bursts into giggles.

After a day spent among work colleagues, discussing academic matters on psychiatry as well as legal terms of a publishing contract, Hannibal has to admit that the sound of it is honey for his ears. From the ankle, he moves his hand to reach the boy's foot, and holds it tight, rubbing the arch with his thumb in a soothing move. Then he slowly works his way up to the top of the foot, applies more pressure as he gets closer to the mounds. Will hums in pleasure. Stress releases him and Hannibal both.

"This is nice," the boy says in a whisper, while Hannibal focuses on his toes and gently pulls each one of them. It's a devotion that Will has never experienced, and that seems misplaced, but nevertheless enjoyable. Will puts his head on the armrest, eyes heavy-lidded, and push his hips lowers on the sofa and towards Hannibal. An invitation of sort.

Hannibal shifts his hand then and begins once again to stroke the boy's ankle. He resists the urge to grab his hips as he has done earlier. Instead, he doesn't cease his soft touch and climbs along Will's legs, massaging his calf, the bend of his knee. Ending up on his thigh. He reaches his groin and stops right there, but he lowers on Will and sinks his nose into the notch, breathes it in. The motion is, in all likeness, the most erotic thing that Will has experienced in a long time. 

"You know," the boy starts in a voice so broken that he's surprised by how disrupted he already sounds, "when this morning I told you that I don't kiss – _oh!_ " While Hannibal's nose rubs the skin of his groin, his cheek brushes his cock, sending shivers down Will's spine. "I'm pretty sure I didn't skip the 'on the mouth' bit." The man stays quiet and says nothing. He raises his head enough to stare at Will, and gives him a look as if he hasn't got the point yet. He has, but he likes to pretend. Will sighs (but it comes out as a moan). "You can kiss me, Hannibal."

As if he had waited for permission, the man plants a kiss right where he had only rubbed his nose seconds before. It's a wet kiss, almost savage: Will can feel teeth and hot short breaths coming from Hannibal's nostrils. He continues, moving upwards, and settles his mouth just above the waistband of the briefs. Will exhales; his hips raise in an involuntary move as if he is not the one controlling them, and Hannibal places a hand beneath them. But he never touches his bulge. Instead, he acts like he wants to avoid it on purpose, for the pleasure of seeing Will squirming under his touch. A wet spot appears on the cotton brief, a precum leak that shows how urgent Will's desire is. And it has probably never happened to him during the years spent as a hooker but, while Hannibal goes on with the kissing, and Will's legs are raised up to Hannibal's shoulders level, a hushed "Please" escapes his lips. He only manages to make the man eager.

"Please," he repeats, "I want –  _ ah! _ – your mouth on m-my cock." At the mention of the word, Hannibal groans against his skin. He has lifted Will's shirt so that he can trace his tongue around his navel, between his ribs, on his chest. In this journey across Will's body, he finds a nipple and bites, pulling a bit, and making Will's moaning even harder. As he finally reaches the hollow of Will's neck, Hannibal grants him mercy and places his palm on the boy's cock. A simple movement but enough to make Will's vision blurred at the edge. Hannibal licks the skin behind his ear, bites his lobe, and just as he starts to touch him properly and stroke his erection, his phone rings.

Hannibal doesn't even give Will the time to realize the sudden change of position: he gets to his mobile in no time. "Hello?" 

From the couch, Will throws at him an astonished look, but Hannibal doesn't pay him attention anymore. "Yes," is saying, "but I presumed we already had an agreement." It's hard for Will to get what is going on: not only does he knows little about Hannibal private affairs, but he also still feels still dizzy from all the action, and his cock is painfully hard inside his briefs.

" _You_ were supposed to see this through, Frederick," the man speaks again. A thought occurs to Will: touching himself on the sofa while the man is on the phone, besides giving himself relief, would make a show that Hannibal would undoubtedly appreciate. Thus, he spreads his thighs, but as he's about to put his hand underneath his pants, he notices Hannibal's worried expression, the way he pinches his nose and tightens his lips. Before speaking again, Will hears him sighing. It's a clear sign that it's not the right time for games.

"If there is no other way to solve this, I'll go to the dinner. Thank you for calling me, goodnight." When he returns to the sofa, he looks even more tired than before.

"Is everything alright?" Will asks tentatively, not sure if he's intruding and surpassing a boundary.

"Work related issues. Nothing worth worrying about right now. Where were we?" He draws Will towards himself with just one hand, and the boy ends up on his lap, each knee at each side of Hannibal's side. It's a big, enormous, gigantic temptation, to just let him continue with everything he was doing before, and give him another great orgasm. But, in the end, if he's here it's just for Hannibal's pleasure, not for his own. So, he gets close to Hannibal's ear and whispers: "It's okay. Go to bed. Have some sleep."

Tenderness. That is what Hannibal hears in Will's voice. A caring note which is nothing more than a farce, and yet, Hannibal finds himself on the point of buying it, so absorbed he is by the lovely curve of his smile and the fluttering of his eyelashes. Will slips away from his arms, and Hannibal can only blink at him in bewilderment, both because he was about to be fooled and because Will has been smart enough to fool him. He clears his throat then, as he realizes that his hand has been holding the boy's fingers as if not wanting to let go, and he forces himself to break the touch. The look that Will gives him as a response is one full of benevolence.

Hannibal sleeps, but it doesn't last for long. He feels restless in the bed, twisting and turning between the sheets, not truly worried, but at least displeased by the way things turned out. He had been clear with Chilton: deal with these pigs, he had said. But apparently, his colleague Frederick's ability with words shows up only when he speaks with Hannibal on the phone, and once again Hannibal has to clean up the mess caused by the man's incompetence.

He raises from the bed as soon as the first rays of light hit his eyelids and heads towards the kitchen. He glimpses at Will's door down the hallway, notices that it's still closed. There's no wonder in that: it's too early in the morning for the boy to be awake. But he turns on the coffee machine anyway, in case he decides to emerge from his room.

He wears his reading glasses then and focuses again on the papers he had to put aside the night before thanks to Will's (very welcomed) interruption. All he needs to do is find a term in the contract that might stop all the nonsense he had to put up with lately and shut his editor's mouth once and for all. One is led to think that textbooks are an easy thing when it comes to publishing, but dealing with Mason Verger had made Hannibal change his mind very quickly. He has no intentions of altering the content of his book: of this he is sure, and no matter how hard the man has tried, Hannibal hasn't faltered yet. Giving up his purpose and not publishing the book, on the other hand, is not open for discussion either. What he has to do, if the contract won't provide any bits of help, is find an alternative way to achieve his goal and, from this perspective, the incoming dinner could be useful, if only he knew how to take advantage of it.

He brings a cup of coffee with him as he sits outside on the terrace. The chill air of the dawn makes him shiver, but it awakens him more than the coffee did. He resumes his reading, putting his brain into action. Clause after clause, he goes through the entire contract at least three times, and then again, reading it a fourth time just to be certain. He finds nothing. His lips are tight, his jaw clenched. There must be a way, yet his mind ignores it, and it feels awful.

He tosses the papers on the table, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to get rid of the tension that has taken hold of him. When he opens them again, Will is standing in front of him.

"You look even more tired than last night," he states, his eyebrows quirked. Hannibal watches the boy's face, his puffy eyes, and rumpled hair. Consumed by the lack of sleep, but still the embodiment of beauty. The boy takes a seat in front of Hannibal and regards him with those big blue eyes of his that could melt the ice if such a thing was physically possible.

"I promise that I had some sleep."

Will hums in response. He wears a nightgown today; it's black, and the folds of the fabric are shiny against the sunlight. Hannibal's eyes scan it, but he doesn’t find the Hotel logo. It’s probably a new purchase as well. Apparently, the boy can wear every piece of expensive clothes Hannibal has provided to perfection, adding some charm even to something so simple and crude as a black nightgown. He must have an innate grace in him, Hannibal concludes, and wonders why the boy hasn't exploited it yet. With a face like his, there is nothing one can’t achieve. 

The boy runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame it, unsuccessfully. Then he puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on the palm of his hand. He eyes the cup of coffee Hannibal has taken with him.

"No breakfast for me this morning?" Rude. But his voice is so pleading as he says it that Hannibal doesn't mind. Instead, the tense expression on his face gives way to something more softened, bordering on apologetic, to an extent that it's Will that feels sorry soon after asking that question. He is not in the place of making requests, he remembers. Not to mention that he shouldn't take advantage of the man's politeness, which is already beyond any imagination.

Quickly and as if it came out of an involuntary gesture, he extends his hand and touches Hannibal's forearm resting within his reach. He caresses him. It's stupid, feeling the need of reassuring a man that always seem so confident. He can't help it. "Just a joke," he says. And smiles.

Hannibal can't pin the exact moment when he decides. But at some point, as he looks into Will's eyes, he knows that this boy could turn the whole thing around, be his golden ticket. And not because Mason Verger could have a fascination for him — Hannibal doesn't take him for the sensitive type. But making an appearance with someone as exquisite as Will could put him under a different light, at least according to Mr. Verger's standards. Hannibal's dominance would be undeniable, and his editor would be forced to kneel, metaphorically, if nothing else. 

Will's fingers are still on his forearm when the man decides to ask. "Would you like to attend a dinner with me tonight?"

"A dinner?" He retreats his hand abruptly.

"Yes. It's a work-related thing, an important meeting I can't avoid. I'd like to take you with me. Only if you agree, of course."

Will seems to let the thought roll in his head just for a bit. Hannibal understands his fear, considering the way people have treated Will, at the Hotel and all around it. And for this, he's almost sure he will receive a rejection this time. Against his expectations, though, the boy nods, and it's an uncoordinated movement which shows all of his uncertainty, but, as long as Hannibal has the answer he wants to hear, the rest doesn't matter at all.

But Will is shit scared. As he takes his leave from the terrace, leaving Hannibal reading only God knows what kind of papers, Will feels his gut clenched and his legs wobbly like jelly. There is no way he is going to survive this: the severe gaze of people in the restaurant, for instance, or the disappointed looks they will put on as they find out how ill-bred and vulgar he is.

Will reaches his room. As he chooses the outfit for the day, his mind keeps brooding on the matter, and it does it for so long that, at some point, he can sense the beginning of a headache. He has to go out, gets some air. He mulls over the idea of going to Beverly but, in all likeness, she would probably be in a deep sleep for the whole morning. He puts his new pair of loafers on; they're in dark navy suede, something that Will would have never worn before, and he realizes that Beverly's sleep is not the only reason why he doesn't want to get back: he doesn't want to ruin the shoes. He gapes in shock, and storms outside the room. He  _ really _ has to get out of the suite as soon as possible.

Talking about his concern with Hannibal seems useless. Moreover, he doesn't want to disappoint the man, for some reason, and pride prevents him from doing something so reckless as showing his weakness. All dressed up, he takes the elevator, reaches the hall, crosses it without trouble this time: the other guests don't seem to mind his presence now that he appears as one of them and blends perfectly with the crowd. On his way out, he spots a lady from the staff vacuuming in the hall and decides to approach her and asks about the restaurant where the dinner will take place. Hannibal hasn't said much, choosing to mention just the name of it. Spago, he had said.

"What a lovely location!" she exclaims, in a such an over-enthusiastic tone of voice that Will presumes that is what she is forced to say about every restaurant in the world. In the end, she addresses him to a place "just around the corner!" which in a Los Angeles way of speaking means taking a cab and spending a fortune. With a heavy heart, he heads outside the Hotel.

Even under the brightest sky, the air is crisp at that time of the day. The sidewalk is desolate, looks even bigger than usual. In front of the Hotel's grand entrance, a bronzed framed door embellished with swirling foliage inlaid, there is the same coming and going he saw on his first evening here. The valet is still there. They exchange a brief look and Will wonders if the boy has recognized him and if his appearance has left him puzzled. He wouldn't blame him.

Without the usual chaos that defines it, L.A. is unquestionably more tolerable. Will rejoices in the quietness, takes a deep breath to clear his mind. Would the city be the same if it stopped being chaotic all of a sudden? Can one have L.A. without the traffic and the loud noises and the obnoxious tourists? Chaos is the core of L.A. Chaos is its true nature. Can one deny something's true nature?

The boy lets his eyes wanders He is in search of a cab and hopes for a bus, but neither of those come into his sight. It's then that he detects the guy from the front desk. The man, whose name Will tries in vain to remember, is greeting (or saying goodbye) to a couple of elderly (most likely to be shamefully rich, considering the courtesy treatment). Will waves at him when their eyes meet — a polite gesture, not an attempt at being friendly — and the man takes the chance to approach him. His smile is fake as ever, but the events of the previous days have made him tone it down a bit.

"Mr. Graham!" Jimmy Price exclaims to greet him. As the good employee he is, he's perfectly able to block a startled expression before it makes an appearance on his face. Mr. Graham is nothing like he was the day before. All ornate and in full dress, even his manners come out as more gentle and considerate. The boy gives him an awkward nod.

"How are you enjoying your stay, sir?"

I'm enjoying it very much if we don't consider the social pressure and the fact that I'm having trouble at keeping my sanity. "I have a dinner tonight."

It's probably the most stupid thing to say, outplace and illogical. The man lifts an eyebrow, clearly confused by the exchange. "Well, congratulations, sir," he says, but his voice is hesitant, and he regards Will with a hint of disbelief. "I'm afraid I have to inform you that yours is not a unique situation. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

Will scoffs. "That is not what I meant. I have a dinner at Spago." In all honesty, he isn't sure about what he wants to pull out of the conversation. This guy sends him some vibes, though, gives him the feeling of being reliable. After all, he showed compassion for him the day before. He had taken him to the Hotel manager instead of calling the police and, let's face it, who would do it in his place?

"A delightful place, Mr. Graham. You will love it."

"Will I?"

He puts a lot of emphasis on the 'I' bit, and it's a good thing he still has some self-respect, or he would otherwise point at himself and scream: "A scumbag like me?" or something along the line.

"Of course. You will like it just fine, sir."

It's not clear if Jimmy has got the point of what Will wanted to ask. But, in spite of that, his words make the boy feel relieved, so much that he senses the weight of worry falling off his shoulders. He bows his head then, a way of thanking him for his help, and as the man resumes his pace to get back to the reception, Will hears him say: "Just mind which fork you use."

He ends up in a back room of the hall, soon after. It's a small room behind the front desk, tiny and messy, and unbelievably different from the rest of the Hotel. People from the staff come and go, some of them put off the sempiternal smile mask they use to wear in public. Will even recognizes the vacuum girl as well and realizes his assumptions about her kindness were true. The man — Will finds out his name is Jimmy —now sits in front of a maroon velvet box full of silverware, and regards the boy with a grave face.

"There is nothing more important than dinner etiquette," he says, and for the next few hours, he spends his time introducing the boy to a series of weird and, according to Will, useless rules about dinner. Apparently, not only the Galateo demands the use of different forks for different meals, for each fork has a specific purpose, but it also dictates their place on the table. And then there's the number of prongs, the position of the knife, the supper spoon. During the first half of the second hour, Will sighs deeply only to receive a chastised look from Jimmy that makes him resume his learning in no time.

Around the start of the third hour, the Hotel manager storms inside. Jimmy jumps up as if he was a soldier greeting a corporal, and starts explaining that he has found a backup, and someone is covering his place at the front desk. Mr. Crawford lets his eyes run from Jimmy then to Will, then to Jimmy again. And finally, he asks:

"Did you tell him about the napkin?"

Jimmy pats his palm against his forehead.

The napkin should be unfolded in a smooth motion ("Don't snap it!"), and it should cover the lap, but never — never — tuck it into the collar or the belt. It's vulgar, and only hicks do it, as Jimmy points out.

"Do not wipe your mouth with it," Mr. Crawford advises.

"What do you mean I can't wipe my mouth? What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"Use it to pat your lips, especially before drinking."

Will sighs. The two men now dance around the chair Will sits on, lecturing him about napkin rings and salt and pepper, and the boy watches them, eyes wide and mouth agape in a worried but also astonished expression spread on his face. He repeats in his head everything the men say to him, every concept, every guideline they had to offer, and keeps doing it as he walks across the hall, reaches the elevator, and returns back into the suite.

It's almost noon when Will opens the door. A smell hits his nostrils. Can't pick what it is, but it seems delicious anyway, and he assumes Hannibal must have cooked for him, probably to make up for the missed breakfast. The man appears not long after Will has closed the door behind his back. He has come out of the kitchen, wearing his apron and holding a wooden spoon in his hands. Will, in the hallway, pauses and smiles at him.

"Hi. Sorry if I ran away."

Hannibal keeps his eyes fixed on him, but then he bows his head and returns to the kitchen, where a pot sits on the stove. The man dips the wooden spoon inside and takes a heaping spoonful of what seems to be tomato sauce. He brings the spoon to his mouth, and tastes it, closing his eyes. "Never mind. I understand you were having concerns about the dinner. How did you silverware lesson go?"

Will's jaw dropped. "How the hell do you know?"

"People from the staff can be very  _ chatty _ ."

A few hours later, the seat of the luxury car rented at the Hotel seems uncomfortable under Will bottom. The chauffer drives silently, as Will keeps shifting position, fidgeting like a teenager before a school exam and looks outside the car windows in search even of the smallest distraction. Hannibal, from time to time, eyes him, eyebrows quirked in an interrogative way. As a response, Will looks in his direction — but avoids the eyes — and does his best to crack a smile that instead results in an awkward twist.

Hannibal, by his side, appears charming as always. His suit is a pastel light blue that brings out the man’s skin complexion — a few shades darker than Will’s, but still in the Caucasian range. The tie is pastel too, or at least it seems like it. On a closer look, Will discovers it’s not pink and it’s instead white, decorated with red lapis lazuli. The outfit contributes to soften Hannibal’s face traits, and his expression, which is firm now, probably hardened by tension or whatever negative emotion the man is able to feel, has a gentle feature.

Charming and elegant. Will knows he’s light years different from Hannibal, even now with the fancy suit Hannibal had chosen from the clothes Will had bought. There is no class in the way his hands move nervously, tightening his knees into his hand; there is no charm in the way his breath trembles and his heart beats fast against the fabric of his shirt. Yet, the man chose to be in his company for the occasion, and he can't let his anxiety ruin everything.

When they arrive, Will exhales deeply, trying to get rid of all his negative thoughts. Hannibal doesn’t pay attention to him, and Will has to admit to himself that it’s a first since his moving into the suite, but he can’t blame him. Not soon after, in fact, a couple approaches them right on the sidewalk and one of them, a man with funny hair all sticking up, extends his hand to Hannibal and greets him with vehemence. From the way Hannibal’s mouth twitches, Will realizes there must be some bad blood between the two of them, and it’s curious for him to find out that the man is one of their commensals.

“I’m Mr. Verger,” the man says, shaking Will’s hand. “Nice to meet you, young boy.”

Will has to bite his tongue not to reply to the statement and, if he manages to gain some composure, it’s only thanks to the lady who grabs his hand right after and, in a low and intriguing voice, introduces herself. “I’m Margot.”

Margot. Blue eyes and plump lips. She must be Verger’s sister, Will gathers; the resemblance is striking. She wears a tailored suit, an unusual dressing choice for someone so beautiful and feminine. But it’s that oddity that arouses Will’s curiosity. He watches her, fascinated, notices the way she stays silent by her brother’s side as if afraid of him somehow — the realization makes Will glare in Verger’s direction even more. Hannibal notices this, chastises him with his gaze in no time.

They enter the restaurant after few minutes of small talk, which Hannibal seems to master without any problem. Will stays quiet, as much as Margot, and they must look weird to an outside eye, like two puppies following their owner and wagging their tails, waiting for them to reprise the walking. Will exchanges a look with Margot as Verger and Hannibal talk to the restaurant receptionist, and then he let his eyes wander around, take in a full sight of the place he has feared all the morning long.

The place isn't sumptuous as he has previously thought. It's a tiny white building, which includes an outdoor space squeezed between the two wings of the restaurant. It’s packed up with people, and the chattering noises are hard to bear, but in the confusion, Will can’t help but notice something that makes him feel better almost instantaneously: none of them looks particularly dolled up. People wear casual and comfy clothes, and most of the customers are tourists, which aren’t usually pretentious. Au contraire, they’re elegant no more than Will is: an elegance which comes from buying fancy clothes and pretending to be damn rich, at least just for one night.

“So, Mr. Verger,” says Hannibal, after the waiter has taken everyone’s orders. “I’m afraid I can’t see what the issues in my paper are. You can’t deny its completeness and exhaustiveness. Every psychiatrist–“

“Oh, Mr. Lecter! Hannibal! Can I call you Hannibal?” The man laughs, and his voice has something so creepy and crazy in it that it makes Will’s hair stick up on the back of his head. “That is exactly the point. Every psychiatrist. Will every psychiatrist comprehend what you want to say? Of course they will, my dear Hannibal, my dear friend!”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but he tilts his head and narrows his eyes, so slightly that Will is likely the only one who notices the movement, considering how physically close they are. The Verger guy annoys Hannibal as few people do, Will realizes, so he must really care about his books if he chose to attend the dinner in spite of that. Hannibal stares at Mr. Verger intensely and stays quiet. It’s Verger that speaks again, soon after.

“I’m a publisher, you know? I’ve been a publisher for a very long time. My father was a publisher, my sister–” and he gestures towards Margot, who freezes when she realizes she is mentioned, “will be a publisher. Or, well, maybe not,” another spurt of awkward laughter, “maybe not Margot. She is not good with these family matters. But maybe her son will be a publisher. And mine too!”

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Verger.”

“Oh, please, call me Mason! We’re friends now, after all! We’re having dinner all together!”

Verger glances at each of them, with a wide smile spread on his face, waiting for some friendly reaction that never arrives. Disappointed, the man talks again. “My publishing house has never cared about élites. You say ‘psychiatrist’, I think about a bunch of nerds who wear tweeds and thick glasses!”

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak.

“Shh, shh, shh. Hush. I know. I know. I generalize, I shouldn’t. Margot always tells me the same.”

“Even if you’re right,” Hannibal concedes, flaunting the best blank face he can manage, “we can’t forget that it’s a psychiatry book.  Written by a professional.” The ego burst makes Will snicker.

Courses arrive. Hannibal had ordered in Will’s place because the boy had asked him to. He had chosen a menu of fish and a bottle of Franciacorta Chardonnay, of which he had sung the praises naming all its characteristics in a speech to which Will didn’t even bother to listen. The table fills up with terracotta trays painted with blue and red in a perfect Mediterranean style. They eat in silence, supping on swordfish, marinated shrimps and salmon.  From time to time, as Hannibal takes a sip of wine, he attempts to start a conversation — testing the water, Will thinks — but the boy stays quiet, observing and trying to find out the source of the tension running between the two older men.

It’s when the waiters bring a bowl and put it in front of Will, that he finally breaks the silence. 

“Erm, Hannibal.” He leans towards the man and lowers his voice until it’s just a whisper. “What is this?”

The bowl contains a red sauce, probably with tomatoes, oregano and small pieces of fish that Will can't recognize until he sticks his fork into one of them, raises it to his eye level and realizes it has tentacles.

“Polpo alla pizzaiola. Octopus. It’s a Mediterranean delicacy.”

Will goes back to staring at his piece of fish meat, an impolite gesture that makes Margot chuckle. Will hears her, by his side.

“It’s delicious,” she says with a smirk. “Trust me.”

Mason Verger resumes his talk, not long after the antipasto is long gone. His manners haven’t lost that levity that surprised Will so much, but his face appears sterner now as if he was preparing himself for a serious speech.

“Verger Publishing has a vast audience. Most of the books we deal with are destined to the masses,” he says in the end, but it’s not a statement. More like a challenge he’s throwing to Hannibal.

“This is why I chose you.” A smile. Both of them being polite, both of them playing a game.

“Then you should know that we can’t publish your book if you don’t make it more... easy-going.”

Hannibal tightens his lips. A waiter brings a tray of pasta. Penne alle cozze, he announces. “We’ve discussed it before, and I have already said I am not willing to make changes.”

“Then we are at an impasse, my dear friend!”

“Or maybe we could find some alternative solutions.”

“There are no alternative solutions.”

“Oh, please.” It’s Will who talks now. He produces a loud snort, before uttering the words, which have an impact he didn’t expect. Everyone at the table shuts up, stops moving and looks at him. Even the tables around seem to have stopped.

“I beg your pardon, young boy?”

Margot’s eyes are wide. Hannibal’s face is somewhere between intrigued and disbelieving. Mason looks like he could yell at him at any point. He probably will. Will bites his tongue and curses his inability to keep his mouth shut. But he couldn’t help it. The man is creepy and irritating, and Will knows it’s not his place to make comments, but his guts have been twisting in anger.

“Please,” the boy repeats. “It’s not like that is the reason why you don’t want to publish the book.”

“Oh really? And what is the reason, then?”

“You’re envious.” Will isn’t sure about that, but he comprehends the human nature well enough to recognize the signs of envy. Mason Verger overflows with it. He had spent the evening looking at Hannibal’s gestures, copying them, holding the silverware in the same way Hannibal did, or wiping his mouth soon after Hannibal wiped his own. He doesn’t say this to Verger because his aim isn’t to rouse him — it wasn’t his aim all along, but he hasn’t handled the situation in the best way possible. He takes a bite of the Pennette, the second and last pasta dish of the meal, and fixes his eyes into Mason’s, mimicking the defiance the man had shown just before.

Mason Verger doesn’t answer to his provocation, ignores it entirely. He stays quiet until Hannibal clears his throat and changes the subject quickly, starting to discern about a Pennette recipe he used to prepare years before. Between a word and another, he turns towards Will and, even if his lips aren’t smiling, his eyes are. It’s enough for Will.

But Mason hasn’t taken his eyes off Will, not even when another waiter brings the almond parfait that serves as a dessert. Eventually, maybe tired of the little game, he speaks again.

“You should only trust family,” he says, looking at Will but speaking with Hannibal. “An important dinner like ours– you can’t bring a stranger to a dinner like this, my friend.”

“We have very different ideas of what trust means, Mason.”

“I guess we do, I guess we do. Look at me. I’m here with my beloved sister,” he extends his arm to run his hand across the girl’s cheek. She doesn’t seem comfortable but doesn’t attempt to move. 

“She is the most precious thing I have in my life, you know? I do care about the publishing house, but I’m telling you this: if she told me to sell everything up, or to destroy the company by making a wrong move like publishing your book, I would follow her advice downright. You should do that too, you know? Following your sister’s advice. I bet they would be wise and clever.”

Hannibal freezes and the smile on Verger’s face quickly turns into a grin.

“Seeing that we can’t reach an understanding on this–“ Mason goes on, as waiters bring desserts, “I don’t see the point of continuing this evening.” He folds his napkin and puts it on the plate, just before the waiter could serve him. He gets up and extends his hand to Margot, palm up to grab Margot’s own hand. The girl eyes Will, but soon lowers her gaze, apologizing. She accepts Mason’s invitation and gets up as well. “I’m very displeased it had to go like this.” There is not a note of sincerity in his voice.

They leave. And Hannibal, with a cup of green ice cream in front of his face, doesn’t even move his eyes, letting them stay fixed on some point far away, unfocused. When the waiters ask him if they needed to serve dessert to the two empty places as well, he doesn’t answer, but dismisses them with a movement of his hand. Will, tentatively, reaches towards him, touching the crook of the man’s elbow in a soothing caress that doesn’t seem to distract Hannibal from his thoughts. The whole conversation had upset him deeply.

“He didn’t even offer to pay for dinner,” says Will, breaking the silence. “Fucking rude.”

Hannibal bows his head, composes himself, turns towards Will. Stays quite.

“Do you want to go? We could take a walk,” offers the boy.

“The Hotel is too far from here to take a walk. And it’s not safe to walk alone at night. But yes, let’s pay and go away.”

They take a cab this time. Neither of them talk, as it had happened before, during the journey to the restaurant. This time though, it’s Hannibal’s turn to be distressed. Will gives him his space. He could ask him questions about his feelings, or try to cheer him up: he has done things like this for money, wearing the mask of the caring boy, which apparently suits him well, although it’s the hardest to wear. But now, whatever efforts he could make, the whole thing with Hannibal sounds inappropriate.

They walk side by side when they arrive at the Hotel. Jimmy Price gives them his best smile, and Will waves his hand at him, his lips shyly curving upwards. Then he reaches the elevator, Hannibal just a few steps behind him, and pushes the button. But when the doors open, Hannibal doesn’t step inside with him.

“Do you mind going without me?”

The boy turns, eyes wide, his expression puzzled. 

He is so candid. Pure. Hannibal can’t help but smile, the sight of Will warming his heart at least at little. “But, where are you going?” the boy asks, and leans forward, as if ready to exit the elevator and follow Hannibal. The man wonders if it’s an in involuntary gesture or if he actually would follow him everywhere.

“I need time to think. I’ll be back soon.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

Hannibal raises his hand and runs his thumb over Will’s cheek, just below his eyes, where the skin is soft and gets red if it belongs to someone shy. “Don’t worry about me.” The man leans, and puts his lips where his thumb had been just before. It’s not a kiss, more like a caress given with his mouth, and he can sense Will’s cheeks igniting, getting warmer under the touch.

Then he goes away. His head hurts, and Hannibal knows he needs to order his thoughts before the negativity of them swallows him whole. His feet guide through the hall and the brief hallway that leads to the Hotel restaurant, where the piano waits for him. He has been here already, and every time for nearly the same reason: to soothe his sorrow. The first time, after his Uncle Robert’s death, when he had decided to stay in L.A. to shake off the grief at least for a couple of days, he had to ask the Hotel Manager for permission. Jack Crawford, with less wrinkles than now, had turned his nose up at the request, but he had let him anyway, probably convinced by the distress painted on the man’s face, with eyes circled and teary. The second time, after his divorce, he had just mentioned he would use the room and no one had the guts to say no. Then it happened again and again, to the point that cleaners and waiters, when he entered the room, greeted him and walked away without saying a word, already knowing he needed peace, silence and solitude. There is so little they wouldn’t do for rich people.

Hannibal arrives at the room and it’s not so late that the tables are clean or the room empty. Leftovers of a dinner just served and eaten can be spotted all around: breadcrumbs on the tablecloth, dirty napkins sitting in disarray, chairs cluttered all over the room. There is a noise of plates and glasses colliding, and the chattering of staff members who haven’t noticed him yet, but Hannibal doesn’t mind, because the piano is in front of him, and he can already feel the tension abandon his body.

On a usual day, he would prefer a harpsichord: his harmonic and delicate sounds work like a charm on his mood. But the piano that the Hotel offered turned out to be a worthy substitute. He plays an aria from the Goldberg Variation adapted for piano, a piece he had memorized back when he was younger and owning an harpsichord seemed too much, even for him. In the room, a few member of the staff stop working and sit, a hand brought to the jawline to hold it, listening with dreamy eyes to Hannibal.

He doesn’t know for how long he plays. He could quantify the length of each negative thought he had had in his mind and then let it go through the note created by his fingers, but they were too many to hope in the success of the plan. He gets rid of the anger for not having found a solution for the book publication; he gets rid of Mason Verger’s face and creepy sound of his voice; he gets rid of the thought of his sister, which Mason, rudely, had brought back with a sneer, knowing how it would hurt. The only thought he keeps for himself is the memory of Will speaking up against Mason, and the blush on his cheeks when he kissed him there.

It’s a pleasing sight, the innocent face of the boy that so much sticks out among the people Hannibal has met in his life, who are everything but innocent, let alone among the people to whom the boy shares the profession. A prostitute with angelic connotations. A whore blessed by a godly pureness. When the boy appears at the door of the restaurant, wearing nothing but a white shirt which, strangely, looks so large on him that the hem brushes his thighs, he strikes Hannibal as a divine epiphany.

They stare at each other for a bunch of seconds, then Will tip-toes towards the man, his bare feet making small but fast steps. When he reaches the piano, that stands on a raised area of the room, he leans his side against it, and regards Hannibal with worried eyes.

“It’s late.”

Hannibal runs his eyes over the boy. His body, in a pose that resembles the ones of neoclassical Venus statues, curves and puts on display the hipbone. There, Hannibal puts his hand, lets his thumb touch the bone that looks so prominent in a body so thin.

“I know.”

They stay like this for a while. Hannibal’s thumb moves in circle against the skin, then he changes his path and resumes it again. The two of them haven’t take their eyes off each other. The man clears his throat and licks his lips, dry for how thirsty he is for Will already. His grip on the boy’s hip gets tighter.

Without breaking the eye contact, he then asks the staff: “Could you please leave us alone for a while?” and they don’t even argue, but put aside their brooms and walk away, not even looking in his direction, as if it represented a violation of sorts. Will looks pleased by the scene.

“You’re so bossy!” he says with a mischievous smile.

Hannibal grabs the boy’s hip even tighter and pulls him towards himself. Will, dragged with such a strength, stumbles on his feet and gains balance clutching at the man’s shoulders. He ends up between Hannibal’s legs, spread up to make room for him; his back touches the piano keys and produces a sound from time to time.

“Am I?” Hannibal asks. He puts on Will’s hips the other hand as well, and now he has a full hold of him. Will nods, a brief oscillation of his head that comes along with a shaky breath out of his nostrils. Hannibal lowers his hand, reaches the hem of the shirt and lets his thumbs sneak underneath it, caressing Will’s thigh, almost touching the boy’s underwear. “And do you like it that way?” Hannibal pushes.

“Yes,” is Will’s answer, uttered in a panty voice. He opens up his legs and pushes forward his hips, already asking for more. “I like it a great deal.”

Hannibal grabs the boy’s ass and pulls him again, but this time their foreheads bump against each other. Will’s curls fall on Hannibal’s face, almost cover it all, while his arms circle loosely the man’s neck. They breathe each other’s air, and each breath becomes more frantic as time passes. Their noses touch; their lips are inches away. Will can’t hardly believe how much effort he is making to not kiss the man. Hannibal trembles as if fighting for not devouring the boy’s mouth, his face, his neck; not consuming him entirely. With the tip of his nose, he traces a path from Will’s cheek to his neck and ear. Bites the boy’s earlobe, careful not to hurt him. Or at least not to hurt him too much. Will shivers.

“Turn around,” Hannibal says, whispering the words on the skin behind Will’s ear. The boy does as he is asked. He puts his hands on the piano board, leans forward. Props — inadvertently? — his ass towards Hannibal. A Michelangelo’s work. The man takes it in, then infiltrates his finger again under the shirt, to grab the hem of Will’s underwear and push it down. The pair of black briefs rolls off Will’s thighs and legs and ends up on the floor, trapping his ankles. Hannibal lets his thumb slide between the boy’s butt cheeks, until it reaches Will’s hole. Will inhales roughly and leans lower, laying his upper front body against the piano board. Hannibal massages his hole and then goes down, rubbing the fragment of skin between the hole and the balls. Will squirms under his hands, opens up his legs, wanting more, and makes soft but pitchy noises, as the pleasure breaks him.

Hannibal then pushes backwards the stool he sits on, in order to make room for movements, and, as he opens Will’s cheeks, he lowers his mouth and sinks it between them, placing a kiss on Will’s perineum and then kissing it avidly. The boy screams; in the middle of his moans, Hannibal hears him utter a wrecked “Please” that only contributes to arouse the man even more. His tongue moves up to the hole, encircling the hole, then withdraws, letting the lips take its place. Hannibal kisses and sucks and slurp, and feels Will’s pleasure growing inside, as his cock gets hard against the wooden board. The boy seems unable to stop rubbing it, moving uncontrollably, and so Hannibal, as to give him a brief release, grabs the boy’s penis and strokes it. Will utters his name in three different tones of the scale. He raises his upper body, propping on his palms. His body is a taut bow. His ass is completely on Hannibal’s face, like the boy is sitting on it, but the man doesn’t back down, and keeps eating it voraciously.

Hannibal’s cock is painfully hard inside his slacks. While his mouth is still on Will, he uses his free hand to unbutton them and pulls his sex out, wet with pre-cum and angry red. The boy’s hole is stretched open, but not enough to receive Hannibal’s cock without lube. So the man pulls away from Will’s ass — “Wh-?”, “Shh” — and slides his penis between Will’s thigh. The tip of the cock brushes against the boy’s ball sack and the base of his sex. Will grasps, pushes his head backwards, extends his arm behind his head and grabs a fistful of Hannibal’s hair, ruining its tidiness.

The friction against his balls, and his cock being stroked by Hannibal’s large hand, makes Will’s eyes blur. So he shuts them and, as the back of his head rests against Hannibal’s crook of the neck, he lets pleasure take over him. He opens his mouth, moaning relentlessly, and Hannibal grabs his jaw, warps his neck with the palm of his free hand. Fingers end up inside his mouth, and Will bites them, loosely though, so they slip down, lay on his chin, leaving a trail of saliva on Will’s lips. They two of them are obscene, entangled in a disheveled position, and obscene is what they are doing. Anyone could enter the restaurant in any moment and find them like this, but to Hannibal and Will all of that doesn’t matter. There is just the two of them: Will tightening his thighs against Hannibal’s sex, Hannibal panting against the skin of Will’s neck.

Unable to resist further, Will comes with a scream that he can’t avoid. Hot spurts of semen end in Hannibal’s palm, as he had thought ahead and tried to limit the mess of their intercourse. But Hannibal, who reaches his climax just after — sinking his teeth into Will’s skin in a bite that will, in all likeness, leave a mark — comes on Will’s thighs and ass.

Drops of cum fall across the boy’s skin. As they free themselves from their entanglement, and Will turns around to face the man and smiles at him, Hannibal takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket, which rests on the piano board, and cleans his palm. Will instead — and Hannibal can’t really say he’s surprised — chooses the sleeve of his white shirt. Hannibal glances at the boy, bent to better clean his thigh, and just then he notices the brown embroidery in the back of the shirt collar. Two letters: H L.

“This is my shirt.”

The boy stops dead, as he hears Hannibal speak. Bent as he is, he raises his eyes and looks the man in the eye. “…Sorry?”

Hannibal hands him the handkerchief. The boy’s wardrobe needs to get richer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a bunch of notes:
> 
> \- Yes, they're eating italian dishes!  
> \- Spago is a real restaurant in L.A. I supposed it's an italian one, that is why I chosed it. Apparently Hannibal (and everyone in the fic) loves italian cuisine. God knows why! (spoiler: I'm italian!)  
> \- The silverware scene was driving me crazy.  
> \- The dinner I described is one I actually had in a restaurant the night before. So delicious!
> 
> Last, but not least:  
> I'm afraid you will have to wait more than a month this time to read the next chapter. There a lot of reasons behind that. Mostly it's the fact that is going to be huge and [I'm on vacation at the moment](http://fangirlingisveryhard.tumblr.com/post/147354852755/hi-guyzzz-this-is-a-glimpse-of-my-life-in-the). I'm so sorry for this little semi-hiatus, but I'll write everytime I get the chance!
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know what you thought of this one tho! I look forward to read your opinions! XOXO


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Victoria](http://artbyvictoriaskye.tumblr.com) is a saviour, the best and the cutest. <3

Two small pushes against the button on the side of the iPad, and the volume of the video reaches its maximum. On the screen, the fluffiest puppy Will has ever seen keeps jumping between its owner’s feet, making happy sounds and pulling out his tongue, resulting in an even cuter small thing. It’s a Pomeranian puppy, literally a ball of fur so joyful that one can’t help but giggle at the sight. That is, in fact, what Will is doing. 

Spread on the couch, laying on his stomach, feet crossed and in the air, he has been watching dog’ videos the whole morning. It’s been years since the last time he had an internet connection at home, and even when he succeeded to connect, with an old and stupid laptop that is slower than a sloth in its worst days, he is too busy checking emails and catching up with the world that he doesn’t have time to waste on something silly like those videos of cute animals doing random stuff and making his heart melt. But these are the perks of living the rich life*.

He hasn’t gotten dressed for the day yet. Briefs and nightgowns are his uniform in the mornings, although he has gotten used to being more sophisticated, even if just to please Hannibal, and there is, in him, a feeling of being a bit uncomfortable for being unkempt or, at least, that’s how it feels. 

Hannibal hasn’t been home; he probably got up very early, because Will hadn’t even heard the sound of the door being shut. The man seems to need few hours of sleep: three are enough, apparently, to fulfill him. Apparently, though. Hannibal’s eyes, after all, speak for him.

The thought of the night before makes Will’s gut wrench even now that his mind is wholly focused on wagging tails and restless paws. Hannibal’s grip is still impressed on him: he had watched himself in the mirror earlier, opening his gown just enough to sneak at the piece of skin where a couple of bruises showed. He had run his fingertips on them, with fondness though, not with the usual repulsion he felt after a particular rough job. The brief touch on the tender skin had made his heart rate go faster, and for this he hadn’t gone further, closing the nightgown in a quick move, holding his breath as if he was indulging in a forbidden pleasure. 

And forbidden it is, in a way, for it’s not wise for a whore to feel attracted to their client, and yet here is Will, on the couch of Hannibal’s rented suite, the iPad in front of his eyes, and an erection growing at the mere thought of the man’s tongue up his ass. Oh, how he wishes he would have taken him* right there and then, on the piano, letting him feel his cock inside, filling him… He has to close his eyes and take a deep breath, and in spite of that, his hips are already pressed against the couch, caught up in an involuntary move. He sits up then, crossing his legs in a lotus position and resumes his dog gazing, giving in to a fit of laughter from time to time.

Hannibal finds him like this, when he opens the door and gets in just minutes later: his curls all tousled, falling against heated cheeks, lips curled upwards in one of the prettiest smiles he has ever seen. Will raises his eyes from the screen and he’s still smiling from something he has just read or watched when he looks at the man who’s standing on the doorway of the living room and regards him as mesmerized.

“Hi,” the boy says. “I borrowed your iPad,” and lifts it as he keeps it in his hand. “Hope you don’t mind. I would have asked but you were gone…”

Hannibal wonders if the boy willingly phrased his sentence like that, or if it was his subconscious who made him ask Hannibal where he had been without doing it directly.

“Sorry I was away.” Hannibal takes off his jacket, lays it on the coffee table near the couch. “I would have told you*, but you were asleep when I went out. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

So he checked before going out, Will realizes. Did he knock on the door? Call his name? Did he open and enter anyway when he didn’t hear any answer? He wouldn’t, too polite for that. But what if he did, and found him on the bed, semi-naked, the curves of his body exposed and there for him to touch. Would he feel tempted to do it? To lay on the bed, against his body, run his hands among his locks… 

“Will?”

“Oh?” The boy comes back to reality all of a sudden. He recognizes a malicious smile on the man’s face. “Sorry, I was— You were telling me?”

Hannibal keeps his eyes fixed on him, and he looks amused for some reason. "There is a polo match at the Will Rogers club this afternoon."

"Polo match? Is that still a thing, in 2016?"

"Very funny. We are supposed to attend, and I was wondering if you had bought some afternoon attire—"

"We? I am pretty sure no one invited me." Will abandons the iPad by his side and gets up from the couch in a quick move, already feeling uncomfortable and not willing to face Hannibal while he rejects the whole idea. A polo match: he can smell the snobbery from the suite. He turns towards the large windows, contemplating the skyline as if mundane matters didn't fluster him at all and he could just brush them off his shoulder. 

"In the interest of honesty, I have just invited you. And I am entitled to do so, because I can bring a plus. But even if that wasn't the case, you should not care about these matters: I want you to be there with me. It should be enough."

Will looks at him over his shoulder. The man wears a white shirt, and his hands rest inside the pockets of a pair of gray slacks. His bright hair falls on his forehead this morning, a more casual choice that mitigates his authoritarian expression, but not enough for Will to avoid a weird feeling of surrender as if all of a sudden he wants to say: I'll do whatever you want. Makes him feel so vulnerable, that stern face. The boy gulps.

"I don't think I own any afternoon attire," and Hannibal smiles at that sentence, and his shoulder falls just a bit, letting go some tension, maybe.

"That is not a problem. I'll sign you a check."

Will keeps his arm crossed in front of his chest, sulking or pretending to, while the morning sun, coming from the window, tackles him. "I have to go shopping then, I assume."

"You assumed right," and the pen's already in his hand.

"I don't like going shopping, though. Stores are not nice with people. At least, not with people like me."

"Stores are nice only with money, and you have all the money you want."

He handles him the check, but the boy waits before taking it. "Come with me?" Will asks, with a hint of shyness in his voice. "It's the least you could do," he adds when Hannibal doesn't speak but instead watches him with his head tilted to one side. "You're taking me to a  _ polo match _ , after all."

"You are being dramatic, Will. I'm sure you will enjoy yourself today." He retracts his hand, then, putting the check inside his pocket.

Will smirks. "Is that a yes? You'll come with me?"

"Go and get dressed, we'll leave in twenty minutes."

The grin is huge on the boy's face as he trots towards his room. Hannibal follows him with his eyes until he disappears behind a closed door, and wonders, in the meantime, if there is a particular reason why he feels so inclined towards him, despite the fact that the boy is, at least, eighteen years younger than him and works as a hooker. There are things that not even a lovely face can overcome, aren't there? Hannibal's eyes end on the iPad Will has left on the couch. He picks it up: it's still turned on. In a loop, videos of puppies are reproducing on the screen. Hannibal can't help but laugh to himself. There are things that not even a lovely face can overcome. But what about a lovely heart?

It doesn't take long before Will finds himself surrounded by colorful clothes and soft silky shirts, inside a small changing room of a sumptuous store on Rodeo Drive. He tries one outfit, then another, all of them coming from a gracious blonde girl with a high pitched voice, who, careful of not opening the curtain, slides her arm between the curtains and hands him, from time to time, a pile of clothes.

"Try this shirt with those gray slacks, sir" or "This aquamarine polo shirt would look lovely on you!" to which Will usually responds with an embarrassed hum.

Hannibal, outside the room, waits for him, sitting on a burgundy velvet chair. His legs crossed, the iPad on his knees, he doesn't seem particularly interested in whatever is happening just a few feet from him, behind the white curtains with a gold logo on it, and the sales girls, as they buzz around him and try to satisfy their customer's desires in any way possible, don't bother to ask for his opinion. And neither does Will, except for the brief moments when he pops his head outside the room and shakes it, to let him know he hasn't found anything fitting yet. The man is paying for it, after all.

But in truth, Hannibal is dying to see him in all those fancy clothes, rich in fabric and tailor, and whenever he notices the curtains moving, he hopes Will would finally get over his shyness and let him appreciate fully. Such a pity that a boy with a face made to be adorned refuses to accept the reality of it and rather hides it behind a layer of shabbiness.

When Will refuses yet another outfit, the sales girl sighs and Hannibal with him. It's so that Will sees him, just as he puts his head outside again to tell him that the girl has not succeeded that time either. But he stops abruptly and returns inside.

"I am sorry, Hannibal" he manages to say, his cheeks already burning red. "This is taking longer than I anticipated and I shouldn't have asked you in the first place. You can go if you want."

The man puts away the iPad and gets up, reaching the changing room but stopping just behind the curtain. He senses Will's closeness, his perfume and the smell of his embarrassment. "You are no bother if that is what you are worrying about." He hears Will exhale inside the room. "But I'd like to help if I may."

Will looks once again at himself in the mirror, as he hears the now familiar high pitched voice going "Excuse me" and passes him another pair of slacks. He doubts Hannibal could help him. He feels goofy, awkward, ugly even, and the clothes make it worse. He has worn the same pair of jeans for months, and the fabric of the last pair of slacks he has tried is worth as much as a month of rent. How could Hannibal help him?

"I think," comes the man's voice from outside, "your mind got stuck in some thought that prevents you from an objective decision. What is it, Will?"

An objective decision. His objective decision should be to run away from the store, from Rodeo Drive, from Hannibal, and never come back.

"These clothes are the finest and most fashionable this season, so I presume they are not the reason for your uncertainty."

Will doesn't respond, but keeps checking himself wearing a pair of Dolce and Gabbana trousers.

"And I highly doubt," Hannibal continues, "that it's a matter of self-confidence because you look absolutely beautiful. You would look beautiful in every piece of clothing in this store of this store, honestly."

At this, the boy shut the curtains opens. "You're mocking me, by any chance?"

Hannibal's eyes go wide as they lay on Will's body, fit and young, and so tiny it could disappear into his arms, if only Hannibal decided to put them around his waist.

"How could I?" and his heart beats fast inside his chest.

The honesty of his response painted all over his face is so much for Will to manage that he just chooses to lower his chin, and his gaze too. As the blonde girl gets close again, bringing Will a pair of jeans this time, since he requested a casual attire, Hannibal hasn't stopped to stare at him, staying, though, politely fixed on his face and not letting his eyes wander in other parts of Will's body, that are, in all likeness, just as beautiful.

"My partner wants to try the Gucci outerwear again," he says, pronouncing the word partner so quickly that he doesn't give Will enough time to process it. 

The girl blinks. "But he said-" and Hannibal gives her one look, just one, that is not even commanding or scary, but polite as always, with a hint of a grateful smile on his lips, and it's enough to make her go without further questions.

Will tries the Gucci outerwear. And the Dolce and Gabbana one. And a lot of other brands that Will does not even know about, but that look expensive for sure. An ivory cotton shirt adorned with printed gray flowers, a pair of gray linen trousers. Then a pair of black and white stripy slacks and a really weird light brown linen shirt that had bluebirds embroidered on it. Extravagant patterns, unusual color, soft fabrics. Under the caring eyes of Hannibal, the figure in the mirror is not that hard to look at. From time to time, Will makes a whirl, pose, makes faces and smirks, and Hannibal, quite in his own seat, nods or shakes his head when it's too much even for him. He licks his lips, often. In the end, the boy chooses a polka dots linen shirt that looks funny on him, especially when Hannibal puts a huge white hat on top of his head as they stop at the counter, but Will is sure he will look perfect because he has read it in the man's shining eyes.

They exit the store to find themselves surrounded by the crowd. It's almost noon. People - most tourists, though, because no upper-class person would ever do this - eat sandwiches at the side of the road, wipe their mouths and greasy fingers with paper towels that sometimes end on the sidewalk floor. It's a cheerful and noisy day. 

Then Will spots it, among the crowd, the frizzy red-haired girl from two days before. She stands in front of a shop window, probably to check the display of their goods. She has the same irritating expression and pose, with her arms crossed on her chest. A twinge of hateful feelings hits Will right at his head. As he walks side by side with Hannibal, who hasn't talked but seems assorted in his thoughts, Will can't help but violently bump into her. She loses balance, almost falls. 

"Hey!"

"I'm sorry, I must haven't seen you. My hat gets in the way, you know."

Her face changes as Will's traits start to become familiar. When she recognizes him, her mouth opens in a silent 'Oh' that makes Will almost chuckle.

"I've bought it in that store right there." He points with his finger, raising an arm full of shopping bags. "They were so nice to me. I would have bought here if you would have let me, you know? But luckily you made me realize I was in the wrong place. Have a good day, hun."

Will reprises his walk and doesn't look back. He doesn't even wait for Hannibal who remained still in front of the redhead, trying to understand what was happening, and admiring the girl's shocked expression. He has to bite his mouth not to laugh in front of her. When he catches the boy, he surrounds him with an arm and pulls him close.

"That was rude," he utters in Will's ear.

"I am rude." He turns towards Hannibal, their nose tips almost touching. "I am vulgar, insulting and impolite. Still sure you want me to come with you?"

Hannibal smirks. "Definitely. My beautiful untamable boy."

They eat their lunch in the suite. They only had one hour before having to leave for the polo match, but Hannibal had insisted on preparing a meal for both of them. Something quick, he had said, and still Will found himself eating an elaborated dish with a french name. "Is this what you call a quick lunch?" he had asked, to which Hannibal had just smiled. "Don't you ever eat just a sandwich and go?"

The Will Rogers club is almost forty minutes away from the Hotel. They take a rented car with a driver to reach it since Hannibal's is still out of service, and they pass through the city traffic of West Hollywood, from Wilshire Boulevard to Saint Vicente Boulevard and then up to Sunset Boulevard until the Will Rogers State Park.

The driver parks the car in the parking lot right in front of the polo field, crowded and noisy. A red Ferrari is placed just at their left side, and even if Will can't see the other one at the right side because Hannibal covers his view, he presumes that it would be worth as much. He takes a deep breath and starts playing with the shirt cuff.

"Don't fidget, my dear Will. Remember what I said. You're beautiful. Come now."

As the driver opens the car door letting Hannibal get down, the man extends a hand to Will. He accepts it, in a shy movement, and lands his own on it. The boy is trembling, anxiety is eating from the inside. Hannibal leads him near the field and never lets go of him, but he wonders, as he watches the scared expression on the boy's face and the way the breeze hits his hair and the hat that he carefully keeps still with the touch of his hand, what makes Will so scared. He couldn't be the first time among upper-class people. Haven’t any of them ever paid to lay with him in the past? Are they as uncultured and philistine as he has always thought? Just aiming for a quick sexual encounter and not for such a beauty as that which the boy owns? He squeezes Will's hand a bit tighter, and the boy smiles in return, but his bright blue eyes are still blurred by fear.

A valet in a white jacket approaches them and gives Will a scope, and then, his head lowered, walks away. 

"A scope?"

Hannibal nods. "It'll help you see better. Which team are we on?"

"Are you asking me? I don't even know why we're here in the first place."

Before Hannibal can say something back, they hear someone calling for him. It's a female voice, not too young, but not old either. Hannibal turns in the direction of the voice and Will with him.

"Alana Bloom, what a pleasure!"

"Look at you, Hannibal! Aren't you a sight for these sore eyes?"

Dark hair that reaches her shoulder, blue eyes, porcelain skin and cherry lips. If she were an ex-girlfriend, that would mean Hannibal had clearly a type. Elegant and charming, from the way she moves to the way she dresses (a black high waist tight skirt with a blue shirt: formal but not wooden), she addresses Hannibal with a confidential tone, as if they were old friends. But she kisses him on the cheeks - twice - and when Hannibal puts his arm around her waist, the corner of her smile trembles a little. She definitely has a crush on him. Is it one-sided? Hannibal's eyes do not waste time on her, it seems. Instead, they focused quickly on Will again, and there they stay.

"Will, this is Alana Bloom, my colleague and former student." Will extends his hand, she grabs it. "And this is Will, a friend of mine that has kept me company in the last few days. Los Angeles can be a lonely place, sometimes."

"Oh, don't tell me. You know how much I hate this city. I was so displeased when I found out the annual conference would take place here. But still, here I am. Are you from LA, Will?"

They walk as they speak. The polo field is huge, it takes some time to circumnavigate it. Will walks and talks about himself, giving away a few lies that felt necessary. But all in all, Miss Bloom did seem convinced by the whole story.

"Will contacted me for his graduation thesis," Hannibal had said, and "we stayed in touch." He also added that "he is very smart and educated" and "you two should talk sametime," to which Alana politely replied, saying that it would be a pleasure. Figures. Would she like to talk about big dicks up the ass? Or maybe the best condom brands would be a better topic.

Will forces himself to keep the smile and not let these thoughts slip through his mouth as they continue their conversation. Finally, Hannibal spots a colleague he must absolutely say hello to, and leaves him alone with Alana.

She doesn't wait much before speaking and breaking the awkward silence between them.

"He seems very fond of you," she says. Just like that, no filter.

"Does he? He also seems very fond of you."

"Hannibal and I have known each other for so long. I expect him to be." She turns to face Will and smiles, seeking a complicity that the boy is not ready to return yet. But she does seem nice. They walk a little longer around the field, while Will eyes among the crowd to check if Hannibal hasn't decided yet to leave him there and run away (not only does that not happen, but Alana, who has kept the two of them under her investigative eye, notices that Hannibal does the very same, whenever he raises his eyes from his interlocutor and looks around until the curly head is again under his gaze). She talks, asks some questions but not too many, gives Will space when his shoulders get tight and tensed, stays silent. All in all it could be worse, the boy thinks.

When a bunch of waiters arrives with their trays full of appetizers, Alana and Will have reached Hannibal again. Caught in an intense conversation with a middle-aged man balancing on a cane, who's looking at him with a cringy smile, he doesn't pay attention to Will right away, but it takes just two long breaths until the boy feels wrapped up in Hannibal's left arm. With a little strength, Hannibal pulls him towards himself, and Will starts fidgeting again.

The middle-aged man's voice fades until he stops talking altogether and looks at Will, with a pondering expression on his face. He doesn't dare to ask, but the question is painted on his mouth. 

"You can keep talking, Frederick," Hannibal says slyly.

"Right. But-"

"No 'but'. Will was with me during my debacle with the Verger family. There is nothing I want to hide from." Will’s breath gets stuck in his throat. Did Hannibal put some emphasis on the last sentence?  _ You can’t say things like that! _

"Will, uh?" the man asked, playing with the extremities of his cane and looking steady into the boy's eyes, waiting.

Will takes the hint. "I'm Will Graham, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Doctor Frederick Chilton, general administrator for Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and President of the Psychiatry Conference."

"For this year," Miss Bloom adds.

Chilton gives her a death stare. "For this year."

"You see, Frederick, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I've come to the conclusion that I can't abide by their decision. The Verger family is asking too much, and I have worked hard for this essay to let them prevaricate."

"But I don't see any other solution!"

"Well, we are here now, the polo field is crowded with psychiatrists and associated. How difficult could it be to find another publisher? I know you can do it, Frederick, I trust your skills."

And it happens again. The same convincing tone Hannibal had used with the sales girl earlier, and with him in the morning, appears again and bends yet another man's will under his seductive strength. The man could make a King beg on his knees.

Doctor Chilton doesn't reply. He just looks steady at Hannibal, when the man excuses himself to shake hands with some other colleague and Alana with him. "That guy will be the death of me!" he utters with gritted teeth, and then clears his throat, collects himself and resumes to a more relaxed face. Will, his hands in his pocket, the breeze just slightly disturbing the hat, keeps his mouth shut and his lips tight, and observes Hannibal from afar, waiting patiently for him to come back and save him from another awkward silence.

"He is a friendly man," says Chilton from his left, probably tracing Will's gaze on Hannibal. "People always seem to love him. He plays charming and all of that. But I guess you know that already, am I right?" he chuckles.

The boy is quite a sight. Chilton hasn't yet understood how on earth Hannibal succeeds to land them. All these exceptional beautiful boys and girls. Chilton has seen many of them, at Hannibal's side. Just for a couple of days, not longer. But still, there must be some secret behind this allure that the man seems to have, because, in all honesty, Chilton knows he isn't by any account a lesser man than Doctor Lecter.

The boy, Will, hasn't taken his eyes off Hannibal for one second as if his life depended on it. And it is so evident that one could think it was some kind of charade, this whole story. 

"Have I seen you before, by any chance?"

Will's eyes go wide instantaneously. "I beg your pardon?"

"I have the feeling that I know you from somewhere. Are you a psychiatry student? Is it your first time in the convention?"

What if it was really a charade, though? The boy seems out of place and, after all, they are all assisting to a polo match which isn't something that requires a high level of poshness - or maybe it does, but it's nothing that a young L.A wanna-be can't feign. And what is this shyness of his, like a fear of being seen, if not recognized?

"I-I'm not a student. I'm just Hannibal's friend, that is all."

"I see. And where did you meet?"

The boy's flustaration is evident now. His eyes move around, seeking to an escape route, and his cheeks turn into a dark shade of pink.

"We... we met the other night, uh, we... were on Hollywood Boulevard and..."

Chilton's mind just clicks. Hollywood Boulevard. "Of course. You don't need to add anything else." The boy is a whore. He glances at Hannibal, who is having a laugh with the vice President a few steps away from him, and he grins to himself. He knows his secret, now. Will's face is soft under the touch of Chilton's fingers. He caresses the boy, even though Will tries to avoid the contact, in an attempt to reassure him. He knows Hannibal's secret, but that secret is safe with him.

When Hannibal comes back to rescue him and lead him to a lawn where they sit up and eat a plate of appetizers the man has stolen somewhere, Will finally says it: "Chilton is weird."

"Unfortunately, that is not his only flaw."

They left the Will Rogers park when the sky is already darker, a delicate shade of violet that softens the soul. Clouds in funny shapes catch sleepy sun rays that give them a hue of deep orange and pink, while palm trees in the backlight stand out and flow above their head, as their car drives back to the hotel. Los Angeles is always majestic in the evening. That's how Will is going to remember it, in a far future: city lights and skies made of plum. And that breeze, that soft, never-too-cold, never-too-strong, breeze that felt on his skin like the caress of a mother.

Hannibal walks through the Hall, guiding Will with his hand gently put on the small of his back, and then chooses for them an elevator. He pushes the button, waits for the elevator to descend, goes inside, closes the door. And he doesn't speak. He wears, however, an amused, cunning smile, and Will cannot help but look at him, a hopeless attempt to crack the code and solve the mystery. What is the man planning?

He sees him storming outside the cubicle, opening the door of the suite. Will follows him, watches as the man take off the jacket, disappear inside the kitchen, reappear again with a glass of water in his hands. He faces Will like this.

"I think I'll take a bath."

"Huh?" With his hands folded in front of him, Will stands in the middle of the hallway, the hat still on his head, looking most likely like an idiot. Hannibal, on the other side, looks at him in flesh and charm, the bangs falling slightly on the sidelong glance. He brings the glass to his lips, takes a sip, never looking away. Those broad shoulders he has, they appear even bigger in the half-light of the room, and could carry the world probably, or just Will, and it would be enough. If he were to sink in deep waters, those broad shoulders would be the perfect foothold to grab on and save himself. And he could grab them even now, as the sight of Doctor Hannibal Lecter makes him feel like sinking down.

"I was saying, I think I'll take a bath. Do you mind to join me?"

Steam spreads inside the pink marble bathroom in Hannibal's master bedroom. The man has carefully filled the bathtub, as he waited for Will to take off his clothes and join in. There is a peculiar fragrance in the air, a pleasant floral scent with balsamic undertones. When Will enters the bathroom, it wraps him, and, despite first moments of horrible embarrassment, he slowly gives in to a state of relaxation.

"Lavender," Hannibal says. "Ancient Greeks used lavender blossoms to scent their bath water. It has a tranquilizing effect, as well as many other properties."

"Ancient Greeks knew their tricks."

Hannibal chuckles, and then nods towards the tub to encourage Will. The boy starts to untie his bathrobe. "They certainly did. And their knowledge spanned different subjects: from astronomy to philosophy, from mathematics to art. They even invented the concept of beauty as we know it." Will's bathrobe slides off his shoulders and arms until it ends up on the sink top, folded and neat. The boy faces away from Hannibal, showing his back. "After a long time of experiment and reasoning," Hannibal goes on, "they arrived at the conclusion that the chief forms of beauty were 'order, symmetry, and clear delineation.'"

The man's gaze runs along Will's body. Once again mesmerized by the perfection of his shape, the rough edges of his shoulder blades, the voluptuousness of his cheeks. Narrow waist and wide hips. Standing as he is, he reminds Hannibal of the Botticelli's Venus coming out of her shell. "You would have satisfied the criteria."

Will turns around, and slowly puts himself into the bathtub, not waiting for Hannibal to join him. The water is nicely warm. He places himself on one side of the tub, sits down, puts his head under the water, emerges. He glances at Hannibal from under his wet bangs that stick on his forehead. He retracts his legs, as to make room for the man. Then chuckles. "Will you join me or will you just keep staring?"

"Do you mind if I do?" Will shakes his head.

Hannibal positions himself in the tub, at the opposite of Will, makes himself comfortable, stretches his legs alongside Will's. "So, you like it. Me watching you."

He smirks, and the smirk grows even more as he hears Will's answer. "I like it, yes. It seems you see in me something that I don't. Something beautiful."

"You are frightfully beautiful."

The boy bows his head, unable to return the gaze. Hannibal takes the opportunity to lean forward, grabbing Will's legs beneath the knees and pulling him close. Will's thighs spread accommodatingly around Hannibal’s hips.

They're close, their foreheads are inches apart. But there isn't a trace of uneasiness between them. Instead, Will almost feels it coming naturally, like he has done it already, and several times before. The man takes a sponge from behind him, puts a few drops of bath cream and starts washing Will's body. With slow circular movements, he runs the sponge across his arms, and chest, and up to his neck. Will closes his eyes, throws his head back, lets it sway just a little. It's an intense pleasure, to be taken care of. He is not used to it, after all.

"You were marvelous this afternoon."

"Was I?" his voice just a whisper.

"Yes. You behaved." He reached the soft skin behind Will's ears, and then his nape. Will lays his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder, letting the man wash his back too.

"I did, did I? I was a good boy. Is this my reward?"

Hannibal's hand finds Will's hair, grabs a fistful. He brings his lips close to the boy's ear. "Perhaps."

It's a burning a feeling, coiling up inside his belly, raising through his veins and reaching his mind, and he feels like he could moan at any moment now, so he bites his lips and squinches his eyes.

"Can I ask you a question, Hannibal?"

The man hums, as his fingers are busy trace Will's spine.

"Last night, with the Vergers... He said something about sisters. I don't know, I might have read too much into it. But you seemed upset all of a sudden."

Will has the distinct feeling of Hannibal going tense abruptly. His fingers don't stop moving, nor does he shifts positions, but stays still. He exhales, though, and Will takes it as a sign of his discomfort. "If you don't want to talk about it..."

"My sister died when she was a child."

"Oh."

They don't speak very much after that. Will lets Hannibal wash his hair and massage his scalp, and they share moments of intimacy as well as the air that they breathe. The sound of water, wavered by Hannibal's movements, adds to the sense of abandonment the boy is feeling. He could lose himself inside that tub.

Hannibal exits first. He grabs his personal dark brown bathrobe and dries himself in front of the big lighted mirror. Will, instead, rests just a little more inside the warm water, nearly dozed off. He studies the man, who doesn't seem to bother his presence at all. On the contrary, he reciprocates the gaze from time to time through the mirror, and smiles a bit every time he does it. 

It's not like Will has thought about it when he suddenly gets up and goes out of the tub. Soaking wet, his feet touch the floor and leave a huge puddle of water all around them, but Will doesn't mind, and Hannibal doesn't either, but he looks at him with curiosity and a hint of bewilderment. He hasn't thought about it at all. He moves closer to the man, caresses the fabric of his bathrobe. Rises up on his toes. Certain things, you can't control them, nor see them coming. They just happen. And they usually carry with them mistakes and sorrow, but that doesn't mean you can avoid them. Will leans over Hannibal and lays his lips upon his, and it's a trembling decision, a soft touch that shakes him, a terrifying moment of tenderness that makes him feel on the verge of a cliff, close to a fall. 

He retracts himself quickly, in time to notice that Hannibal hasn't responded to the kiss at all. The cliff is collapsing under his feet now. He turns around as if to run away, but stops just before leaving the room. He needs something to say and makes things clear.

"Just so you know, I didn't do it out of pity."

The first thing he does, when he reaches his bedroom, is grab his phone and type a text.  _ Bev _ , it says,  _ I've made a huge mistake _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is Will at the end of the chapter.](http://bornebackceaselesslyinto.tumblr.com/post/49190606087)
> 
> Forgive me for being late, but English is my enemy and the battle is tiresome.  
> But I enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you felt the same reading it. I'd love to read your thoughts about it, so please, don't forget to write a comment!
> 
> Sending you a lot of love,  
> xoxo


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